We taxi to the runway, then wait for our turn. Waiting, it turns out, is my nemesis because it gives me time to consider all the aforementioned emergency situations that have the potential to arise.
A loud rumbling noise comes from outside, and the plane begins to vibrate. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Have you been able to identify your feelings yet?” Julien drops his shoulder to speak into my ear.
“Definitely nervousness-slash-fear,” I croak.
A warm palm slides across my hand, startling me. My eyesopen in time to watch as he threads his fingers between mine and gives them a comforting squeeze.
My pulse was already racing, my breaths coming in shallow puffs. But now? Now—
“Better?” he asks, concern etched into the lines around his eyes.
“Yes,” I lie. But I cling to him anyway.
12
When was the last time Julien had held a woman’s hand like this? Was it a major red flag that he was forty-six and had never been married? Fear of commitment, poor work-life balance, and any number of negative personality traits would flit through a woman’s mind as the reason, he was sure. They’d be wrong on the first count, probably too close to the truth for comfort on the second, and he figured it was all based off perspective on the third.
The truth was, he hadn’t consciously ended up single while approaching the corner to fifty. After a failed engagement in his twenties, he’d comforted himself that he was still young and had plenty of time to find a woman to spend the rest of his life with. In the meantime, he’d focus on his career and establish himself. Be a man who could provide for a wife and family. But the years got away from him, and proving himself to his father seemed ever within his reach but never within his grasp.
Martha’s fingers tightened around his. He looked down at their clasped hands. Her nails were a blush shade of pink and fit snuggly in between his knuckles, while the pads of his own fingers were cradled in the cutest, tiniest dimples he’d ever seen on the back of a hand.
It was nice, this connection to another person. Physical contact. He hadn’t fully realized how much he missed and craved the simplicity of touch. Would it feel this nice and fulfilling if he were holding any woman’s hand, or was the warmth spreading up his arm and through his body unique to being this close to Martha herself?
Now that they were up in the air and she seemed a little bit calmer, the right thing to do would be to pull away. It was one thing to offer comfort when someone was on the verge of a panic attack, but continuing to touch a coworker in such an intimate, albeit innocent, way went against his carved-in-stone ethics regarding what was appropriate behavior between employers and employees. Although Martha was more of an old family acquaintance, and that trumped a temporary contract, didn’t it? Besides, the way she was clinging to him said she hadn’t quite conquered her fear yet. And what kind of gentleman would deny a lady the support of his strength?
Keep fooling yourself, King.
He was making excuses. Yes, he’d initially taken her hand to offer comfort and hopefully stave off any sort of panic, but he’d quickly realized the act wasn’t entirely selfless. He was enjoying the feel of her hand in his way too much for that.
Over the course of the last couple of weeks, whenever he saw Martha or they conversed via email or texts, he’d experienced the same hyper awareness, the same chemical charge to his system that he’d had that day she’d walked into his office with her donation request. Same with the other day on Signal Mountain, first flirting with her at the pond and then later at the viewpoint, when it had felt so natural to open up to her, to share the burden that had been weighing him down so heavily lately.
He kept telling himself the physical attraction he felt toward her would dull and fade with time and exposure, butthe opposite was happening. The more time he spent with her and the more conversations they had, the more he appreciated her easy smile and tender heart. She was passionate and intelligent and witty and kind, and despite how much of a bad idea it was to allow himself to feel anything beyond strict professionalism while there was a contract between them, he seemed powerless to extinguish the spark that ignited whenever they interacted.
The timing, however, couldn’t have been worse. He needed to stay single-mindedly focused on saving Squire and, in tandem, his father. He had spent so many years putting off any type of romantic relationship for this exact moment. He couldn’t jeopardize all he’d worked for now.
But after all was said and done? When he’d either proven his worth and capabilities to take over King Publishing or convinced his father to listen to reason, maybe then he could divide his energies and make room in his life for something else. Someoneelse. Someone who’d be back to working in a library and not tied up in his own career.
“Julien?” Martha’s voice sounded small, jolting him out of his introspection.
He wasn’t sure if she was speaking quietly on purpose so as not to bother the sleeping passenger on the other side of him or because her fear wasn’t letting her talk any louder.
“Yeah?”
“This is going to sound silly, but would you tell me a story, please?” Her gaze flicked up to his, her long lashes skimming the arch of her brows. “I need a distraction so my brain will stop visualizing this gravity-defying machine plummeting to the ground and exploding into a pile of twisted metal and flames.”
The guy beside him snorted. Not totally asleep, then.
“That’s some vivid imagery.” Julien kept the wry smile off his lips and out of his voice.
She agreed with a solemn nod of her head. “The dark side of imagination.”
He paused so he could think. “What kind of story?”
“I don’t care. Real or made-up, it doesn’t matter.”
He’d never been good at improv, but he’d give it a shot. “Once upon a time...” His voice trailed off as his mind blanked. If he was a storyteller, he could save Squire himself and save them all this trip. What came afteronce upon a time? Right. “Long, long ago...”
