That hits hard enough to silence her. I lean back in my seat, whisky in hand, and watch her absorb it.
“You’re such an asshole.” She sets her water down and stands. “I need to use the bathroom.”
I stand, letting her pass. When she finally returns, I can tell she’s been crying. It shouldn’t bother me, dammit.
The flight stretches in front of us—hours of recycled air, cold light, and too much proximity. Every inch between us feelscharged enough to start another war, so I get on my phone to distract myself.
Hours later we land in Chicago and make our way outside where my SUV is waiting. The cold hits the second we step outside, sharp enough to cut through the heat still coiled under my skin from that damned blanket and her hand dragging mine where it had no business being.
She gets in first, gathering that soft little sundress around her like it hasn’t been driving me half-mad since this morning. I follow her into the back seat, and the door shuts behind us with a final thud.
Chicago slides past in broken ribbons of light. It’s too much history in too little space.
Elizabeth turns toward the window as if she can escape me by looking hard enough at the city. Her dress pools around her knees, pale and innocent in a way that feels like mockery.
I should keep my distance.
I should remember the plane. The lies. The baby I am trying not to think about as another man’s. I should remember every reason to leave her alone.
Instead, I watch the reflection of her face in the glass and want.
God, I hate myself for it.
I hate that I can still want her when everything between us is rotten. I hate that wanting her has survived humiliation, fury, fear, and blood. I hate that none of it seems strong enough to kill it.
“You were crying on the plane,” I say.
She laughs without humor. “How observant.”
“Birdie.”
“Don’t.”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t sound like you care.”
I turn toward her fully. “You think I don’t?”
She looks at me then, blue eyes bright and wounded and mean enough to make a better man back off. “I think you care when it suits you.”
Maybe she’s right. I know one thing. I should let it go.
Instead I say, “Then why did you put my hand under that blanket?”
Color rises in her throat. Good. At least I am not alone in this misery.
“You didn’t stop me.”
No. I didn’t. Because I am weak where she is concerned.
“Just like you’re not going to stop me right now.” I lean closer, slow enough to give her time to stop me. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
Her breath catches.
The city moves beyond the windows in fractured gold. The engine hums. The driver stays invisible beyond the screen that slowly rises. The world narrows to the space between us, to the tension pulling tighter and tighter until it feels like something must break.
But, she never utters the word ‘stop’.
