He unbuckles his seatbelt.
“I know.”
“That’s a private terminal.”
“Also true.”
My mouth falls open.
He gets out, comes around to my side, opens my door, and waits for me with one hand braced on the frame.
“Come on, baby.”
I stare at him.
He just stands there in the morning sun looking unfairly good and completely unsurprised by my reaction, like girls regularly discover they’re being put on private planes before noon and respond with less outrage.
“I hate you,” I say.
His smile deepens.
“No, you don’t.”
Which is the problem.
The jet is sleek and cream-colored and obscenely quiet inside, all polished wood, pale leather, and the kind of luxury that makes you instinctively sit straighter even when you’re in leggings and trying not to think about the fact that the boy who broke your heart once is now flying you somewhere secret.
A flight attendant greets us at the door with exactly the right amount of discreet professionalism. If she notices the heat between us, she gives no sign of it whatsoever.
Which I respect even if it makes me feel seventeen and transparent.
Tristan sets our bags aside, thanks her, and guides me farther in with a hand at the small of my back that is somehow more dangerous than if he’d grabbed me outright.
“Sit,” he says quietly.
I turn and look at him.
“That tone is new.”
“Is it working?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I take the window seat because I need something between my body and his for self-preservation.
He sits beside me anyway.
The door seals. The plane begins to move. The engines hum low and smooth beneath us.
I last all of four minutes.
Maybe five.
Then I’m unbuckling my belt with unnecessary force and turning toward him.
His brows lift.
“What are you doing?”
