“Assuming he makes our takeoff window.” I check my watch again. “He’s already twelve minutes late.”
“I look like shit.”
She doesn’t. Even hungover, even in yoga pants and a hoodie that’s seen better days, she looks like what she is—a movie star playing at being casual. But I know better than to argue when she’s spiraling.
Phoenix yanks her scarf up around the lower half of her face, pulls her hood up despite the controlled cabin temperature, and adjusts her sunglasses like they’re armor.
“Better?”
She looks like she’s either hiding from paparazzi or planning to rob a bank.
“You look fine.”
“Liar.”
“Since when do you care what Atticus thinks?”
“I don’t,” she says, voice muffled by the scarf.
The lie hangs between us, obvious as the designer labels on those damn yoga pants hugging her ass. I’ve watched Phoenix around plenty of men over the past three years—directors, actors, the occasional civilian who catches her eye. She’s either dismissive or cautiously interested, but never this agitated. Never this aware.
Footsteps on the jet stairs save me from having to respond. Atticus appears in the doorway like he’s stepping onto a stage, all casual elegance and calculated charm. He’s wearing jeans that fit too well to be accidental and a henley that shows off arms Idefinitely don’t notice. His dark hair is artfully mussed, and he smells like expensive cologne.
The woman rushing in behind him is less of a surprise. Stephanie, the studio publicist, is blonde, aggressive, and the kind of omega who compensates for her designation by being twice as cutthroat as any alpha.
“Morning,” Atticus says, his voice rough in a way that suggests very little sleep. His gaze slides over Phoenix’s bundled form with amusement. “Going incognito today?”
Phoenix doesn’t respond, just turns to stare out the window like the tarmac is fascinating.
Atticus drops into a captain’s chair near us, sprawling with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.
“We should go over the talking points for the Montreal press junket,” Stephanie announces, not bothering with pleasantries. “Questions have been pre-provided to invited media representatives, but I’d like to make sure your answers are consistent.”
“I need to sleep.” Phoenix pulls a blanket from the overhead compartment, wrapping it around herself like a cocoon. “Wake me when we land.”
“Phoenix, this is important?—”
“Talk to me when we’re at cruising altitude.” She disappears under the blanket completely, effectively ending the conversation. “I can’t be awake for takeoff.”
Stephanie’s mouth purses like she’s sucking on a lemon. “This is exactly the kind of unprofessional behavior that?—”
“That sells tickets,” Atticus interrupts smoothly. “It’s fine. We’ll be answering the same softballs that we already have a dozen times.”
The look Stephanie gives him could melt steel, but she returns to her tablet, fingers flying across the screen with aggressive efficiency. The pilot’s voice crackles over theintercom, announcing our imminent departure. I buckle in, pull out my laptop, and try to focus on Phoenix’s schedule for the next week.
Five minutes after takeoff, Stephanie retreats to the back of the plane for a call.
Atticus drops into the seat directly across from me, close enough that I can smell that cologne again—Tom Ford Lost Cherry, something musky, opulent, and more expensive than it’s worth, but still too sweet to suit him.
“I’m surprised you didn’t invite any of the girls from the party last night to tag along.” I keep my voice neutral, eyes on my screen.
“Regrettably, I slept alone last night.” He stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin above his jeans. “Contrary to what some might think, my reputation as a player is a media exaggeration. I just play into it sometimes for fun.”
I continue typing, reviewing Phoenix’s contract for the Montreal appearances. “Your personal life is none of my business.”
“But Phoenix’s is.”
My fingers still on the keyboard. “I’m her assistant.”
