“Yes.” I pull the blanket tighter around myself. “Thousands of flights every day hit turbulence. It’s just air pockets. Atmospheric pressure. Science stuff.”
His mouth quirks.
“Shut up.”
His smile widens. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it loudly.”
“Thinking what?”
“That I’m being ridiculous.” The plane shudders again, not dropping butshaking, like we’re driving over the world’s worst road, and I dig my nails into my palms. “That I’m stupid little girl afraid of some bumpy air.”
“I think,” he says slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “that we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
I stare at him. “Seriously? You’re trying to make nice now? While we’re being shaken like a martini at thirty thousand feet?”
“When better?” That smile spreads across his face, the one that sells albums and breaks hearts. “We’re trapped in a metal tube together. Might as well be civil.”
“Civil.” I taste the word like it’s something sour. “Is that what you call implying we’re fucking to every photographer in LA?”
“I implied we might be dating. You’re the one who jumped straight to fucking.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Because that’s what everyone assumes. Alpha and omega, working together, showing up places together. The math isn’t complicated.”
“Is it?”
“Oh please.” I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to slide off. “You think I don’t know what this is? Pretty omega, past her prime, clinging to relevance by dating the hot new thing? Tale as old as Hollywood.”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“In actress years, that’s basically dead.” The words come out bitter than I intended. “Especially for omegas. We’ve got a shelf life shorter than raw milk.”
“That’s depressing.”
“That’s reality.”
He’s quiet for a moment, those green eyes steady on mine. “You know what I think?”
“That you’re God’s gift to womankind?”
“Besides that.” His grin turns wicked. “I think you’re attracted to me and you hate it.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You arrogant, self-absorbed?—”
“See?” He leans back, satisfied. “If you weren’t attracted to me, you’d just laugh it off. But you’re getting defensive.”
“I’m getting defensive because you’re being an asshole.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, unrepentant. “Doesn’t make me wrong.”
“You think every woman wants to sleep with you.”
“Not every woman.” His voice drops to that velvet tone that probably makes his groupies swoon. “But you? Yeah. I think you’ve thought about it.”
