The worst part is he’s not entirely wrong. I have thought about it. For about thirty seconds last night before the tequila knocked me unconscious. He’s gorgeous, confident, and exactly the kind of bad decision I’d usually make. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
“You know what?” I pull the blanket up to my chin like armor. “I think you’re projecting. I thinkyouwant to sleep withmeand your fragile alpha ego can’t handle that I’m not interested.”
“Every person with adequate blood flow to their genitalia probably wants to sleep with you.”
The statement is so matter of fact, so casually delivered, that for a second I can’t process it. Then the words sink in and I’m grateful for the dim cabin lighting because my face is definitely red.
“That’s—you can’t just?—“
“What? State facts?” He tilts his head, watching me sputter. “You’re beautiful, talented, and you’ve got that whole damaged-but-defiant thing that makes people want to either protect you or break you. Sometimes both.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“That’s Hollywood.”
The plane drops again, harder this time, and I can’t suppress the squeak that escapes. My hands fly out, grabbing for something, anything, and end up clutching the armrests again.
“But,” Atticus continues like we didn’t just drop fifty feet in a second, “wanting to sleep with someone and wanting to be their friend aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“We’re not friends.”
“We could be.”
“Why?” The question comes out sharper than intended. “Why would you want to be my friend? What’s in it for you?”
Something flickers across his face, there and gone too fast to read. “Maybe I like you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know Phoenix Riviera, the actress. The party girl. The mess.” I gesture at myself, at the blanket cocoon and designer sweatpants and yesterday’s makeup I definitely didn’t take off properly. “You don’t know me.”
“Then tell me something real.”
The request catches me off guard. “What?”
“Tell me something about you. Not Phoenix the brand. You.”
I stare at him, searching for the angle, the trap. But he just watches me with those impossibly green eyes, patient and curious and maybe, possibly, sincere.
“I hate flying.”
“I noticed.”
“No, I mean I really hate it. Terror doesn’t even cover it. Every time I get on a plane, I’m convinced it’s going to be the last thing I ever do.”
“Statistically speaking?—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Just don’t with the statistics. I know planes are safe. I know driving is more dangerous. I know all of that. Doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
The question is gentle, genuinely curious rather than mocking, and maybe that’s why I actually answer.
“My first flight was when I was six. For a commercial shoot in Miami.” I pick at a loose thread on the blanket, needing something to do with my hands. “My mom had never flown before either. She took a bunch of Xanax, washed it down with airport bar champagne, and spent the entire flight either passed out cold or digging her nails into my arm so hard she drew blood.”
Mason shifts beside me, still asleep but stirring, and I lower my voice.
