And the only reason he’s being nice to me is because I gave his foundation ten million dollars. He feels like he owes me.
So, when we’re on a plane bound for Maui to elope, all the proper paperwork on hand, I look over at him. “We’re probably making a huge mistake.”
Jordan reaches for my hand across our first-class seats. (See what I mean by mindless flirting?) I stiffen, but that only makes him start stroking my hand with his thumb in what he means to be a calming motion.
I pull my hand away from him.
“We’re in public,” he says in a low whisper.
He’s right. We probably should try to look like a couple who can’t wait to tie the knot. But Ilikeit too much when he holds my hand like that. It’s comforting. It makes me feel safe.
It makes methinkI’m safe. I also thought I was special with Grayson. See how wrong I can be about things like that? It’s better for me to avoid charming guys like Jordan in case I’m wrong again. Especially now, I have to be extra careful. I’m about to marry him.
I don’t put my hand back in Jordan’s. “Well, but we haven’t made the announcement yet, so we don’t want people snapping pictures too soon,” I excuse. It’s very lame. At least one personheading back to economy took a picture of me. They thought they were being sneaky, but it happens a lot, so I can pick up on it when it does. It’s going to get worse when the show starts, so I need to let it roll off my back like I used to before the whole Mexico thing. That’s why I didn’t call the girl out and make her remove the picture like I have before.
Jordan leans in close, and his breath tickles my neck in a delicious way—no, no, not delicious at all. “But if peopledidget a few sneaky pics of us cozying up to each other, it would sell our story better.”
Dang it. He’s right. I nod, steeling myself to take his hand back and even lean into him. This wouldn’t be so difficult if it wasn’t so easy to melt into him. And his Houston Outlaws hoodie! It’s, like, extra soft. Worn and washed a million times kind of soft.
For the love.
“But maybe this is still a mistake.” I repeat what I was going to say before the strategizing about our hand-holding interrupted.
He turns to me, and since I’m sitting so close, our noses nearly brush. I stiffen and don’t move back because our nearness shouldn’t bother me. Nor should the slight mint of his breath and the pine scent lingering on him. I should not be concerned about nose-brushing with my future husband.
“Do you want to own a hockey team?” Jordan asks. He is, somehow, completely unbothered by the nose-brushing. It’s like he nose-brushes with women every day. And he might. I focused most of my research on Jordan on hockey. Of course I did a background check and obviously had the private detective do a social media dive to make sure there were no red flags, but is that really enough to know a guy?
What was the question? Right, the hockey team. “Yes,” I say.
“Do you want to star in your own reality TV show on your terms and set the world straight on who Libby Bennet is?” he asks. He has not pulled his face away, not even a centimeter.
“Yes,” I reply. I do want that. And I have to marry Jordan to get all of it. Unfortunately.
“We’re not making a mistake.” His voice is calm and reassuring. “Marrying me is not that big of a deal. Your very thorough contracts assure us both that we can get divorced in a year. It’s simply a unique type of business partnership. It’s fine, Libby. Totally fine.”
“Right.” I nod, and our noses brush some more. “Totally fine.”
“But we can always back out if you want to.” He says this with a tiny smirk. I’ve questioned this decision multiple times in the last week. Jordan has stayed unflappable. And he’s absolutely right. It’s nothing more than a role we’re playing, like this is a movie. Our marriage doesn’t mean anything, so I have to stop making it a big deal.
“I’m good.” I nod again to reassure him. Another meltdown averted.
Another reason this man is so dangerous. He has a way of talking sense into me and making me feel taken care of.
“Light kiss coming—that okay?” he murmurs.
“Yep.” Of course. Totally fine. Means nothing.
He tilts his head and drops the barest of kisses on my lips. His lips are soft and my inclination is to lean into it, hold him closer for longer. Kissing him doesn’t feel safe at all, but it feels addicting. He’s smiling when he pulls back. He settles into his seat with a content sigh, still tangling my fingers in his.
I can’t help staring at him. What would it be like to trust someone so easily? To be completely comfortable with whatever happens? To not spend so much time questioning his every move and motive?
I make sure my smile is in place as I settle back in my seat. If someone happened to take a picture of any of that, I wouldn’t know how to explain looking bewildered after kissing a man I’m so madly in love with that we’re eloping.
Jordan leans over again, lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, “You should get some sleep, babe?—”
“Babe?” I question with a tilt of my head, my expression saying, Seriously?“You think someone can hear us right now? You’rewhispering.”
“You don’t like babe?” he asks, lips tilting in a tiny, sexy smile.
