His smile turns lazy and knowing.
My face burns up. “This is cruel,” I inform him.
“The chocolate?”
“The fact that you know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
He leans in just slightly, enough that his shoulder is nearer, his scent stronger, his voice meant only for me. “Tell me.”
“You sit there looking like temptation in a fitted T-shirt, feeding me your favorite candy, and then act surprised when I struggle to remain a functional member of society.”
There’s a beat of silence, then his eyes darken. “Adelaide,” he says, and my name in his mouth is suddenly the most tempting thing in first class.
My pulse throbs everywhere. “Well,” I say, because I can’t let him be the only one ruining lives in this row. “You did ask.”
His laugh is quieter this time. Rougher. Like I’ve gotten under his skin too, even if only a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
He reaches for his champagne, still watching me over the rim of the glass. “For the record, if I’d known candy would get me a confession like that, I’d have bought two bags.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “And here I was thinking you were being sweet.”
“Maybe I was.”
“Please. You haven’t been sweet once.”
His brows lift. “Not once?”
“Nope.”
He thinks about that, then gently takes the empty glass of champagne from my fingers before I can figure out what to do with it and sets it on his tray table.
The gesture is so small that it shouldn’t matter.
It matters.
Something soft catches under my ribs, sudden and unwelcome and somehow more destabilizing than all the flirting.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “Better?”
And there it is. That impossible blend of wild and careful. A man who might say something filthy with a straight face and then quietly clear your mess away without making a show of it.
“A little.” My voice comes out softer than I intended. Before I can think of something clever enough to protect myself, the flight attendant appears by our row to offer another drink, and the spell breaks just enough for me to breathe again.
Barely.
The dangerous part is that I’m not relieved. And I’m already waiting for him to start again.
We’re cruising now, the seat belt sign off, the champagne doing its soft, golden work as I sip it, and his scent is doing something to me too. I’m not going to insult myself by pretending otherwise. Every time he shifts in his seat or turns toward me, something in my body loosens, settles, like it’s decided he’s close enough that I can stop bracing.
Which is insane.
He’s a stranger. A ridiculously hot, unfairly good-smelling stranger who fed me chocolate on a plane, but still.
I drain the last of my champagne.
