“Phoenix.” His voice drops to that velvet tone he uses in interviews. “You mind if I eat the rest of this fruit before it goes bad? Strawberries are my favorite fruit.”
The blanket flies off so fast it nearly hits me. Phoenix emerges like an avenging angel, hair wild, eyes likely blazing behind those sunglasses.
She grabs a strawberry and bites into it aggressively.
Atticus gives an exaggerated frown. “I can’t even have one?”
Phoenix shoves three more pieces of fruit in her mouth, chewing with her mouth open. “No.”
“Okay.” He holds his hands up in surrender, leaning back in his seat slowly like he’s worried she might lunge at him, despite the small smile on his face. “Fair enough. I’m gonna let Stephanie know we’ll be ready to discuss the game plan in a few minutes.”
He winks—actually winks—and heads toward the back of the plane where Stephanie is still on her call.
Phoenix polishes off half the bowl in under two minutes, glaring at him over her shoulder every few minutes. It would be funny if it wasn’t so transparent. The way she tracks his movements, the way her breathing changes when he leans closer, the way she unconsciously mirrors his posture.
She’s attracted to him.
The realization sits like lead in my stomach. Three years of being her safe space, her constant, her person, and she’s looking at Atticus Sloan like it’s simply impossible to tear her gaze away.
I recognize this feeling. It’s jealousy.
“Happy?” she demands of me, shoving the nearly empty bowl away.
I take the bowl and toss it in the trash can. “With you? Always.”
Phoenix turns again to glare at the back of the plane. “He’s infuriating.”
“Yes.”
“Arrogant.”
“Absolutely.”
“Completely full of himself.”
“Without question.”
She sighs, sinking back into her seat. “Why is that attractive?”
The question hangs between us, rhetorical but devastating. Because I know exactly why she finds it attractive. After years of being controlled, managed, and handled, someone who seems to enjoy her pushing back must feel like real novelty. Someone who sees her as an equal, a challenge, rather than a meal ticket or a fragile thing to be protected.
Someone who isn’t me.
“You should drink some water,” I say, because it’s easier than acknowledging the knife twisting in my chest. “You’re probably still dehydrated from last night.”
She takes the bottle I offer, but doesn’t open it. “What would I do without you, Mase?”
Find out you’re perfectly fine, you just deserve to have someone take care of you, I think but don’t say. Instead, I smile the professional smile I’ve perfected over three years.
“Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out.”
Another partial truth that might as well be a lie, smooth as aged whiskey. Because someday she will move on—to Atticus or someone else who can offer her more than schedules and efficiency and silent devotion. Someday she’ll realize she doesn’t need me.
I return to my laptop, to the familiar comfort of calendars and contracts, and try not to think about how Atticus’s laugh makes her smile in a way mine never has.
The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and Phoenix’s hand shoots out, grabbing mine. Her fingers are sticky with fruit juice and trembling slightly.
“I really hate flying,” she whispers.
