Page 5 of He Has Charm

“Is that your heel stuck between the gangway and the plane?” She’s bent down, too busy trying to pull it free to acknowledge me. One of the flight attendants intervenes to help.

“This happens all the time,” he says, smiling at her. “Let me help.” He puts a hand on her shoulder and I feel the sting as if he’s touching me and I don’t like the familiarity. My protective instincts jump from their recesses, unbidden and whether they’re appropriate or not.

“I’ll get it.” I drop my bag and as I grab hold of the stuck heel and wiggle it free, she reaches in around me.

“I can get it.” She grabs for it, looking at me with determination. But before she can get hold of it, the heel loosens and slips through the crack. I hear the clicking sound of the heel as it hits the tarmac.

“Oh shit—I mean—”

We both stare for a second and then I straighten, taking her hand until she stands. “I’m sorry. You almost had it,” I say because she looks undone.

A kaleidoscope of emotions crosses her face and after a few beats, she yanks the broken shoe from her foot and turns away from me, holding the scuffed half-shoe in her hand.

“Thanks for trying,” she says. “It was my own fault for—never mind.” Her cheeks are pink and her mouth tight with annoyance. Can’t say I blame her.

“Like the guy said, it happens all the time, right?” I pick up both our bags and she steps into the plane, limping, without another word. The flight attendant gives her an apologetic look and murmurs something, but it doesn’t improve her wound-up expression. Shit. This is bound to put a damper on her already frosty mood.

We get to our seats three rows in and she turns to me.

“Give me my bag. I’ll have to change shoes. I can’t walk around Logan airport like this when we land.” I hand it to her and she lays it on her seat and opens it while I stow my bag. Moving out of the aisle to let others board, I spy her neatly packed array of clothing organized like I’ve never seen before. She snatches a pair of sparkly shoes and takes off her remaining pump, sliding the old ones into the empty slot and then shutting the bag.

Not before I noticed a lacy bit of red undergarments, or it could have been a nighty. She meets my eyes.

“What?” She frowns and I put a hand on hers as she stands there barefoot with her dress shoes in her hand and frustration oozing from everywhere.

“It’s only a pair of shoes. Why are you so stressed?” My tone is earnest, not sarcastic, because I really want to know what’s bothering her and I hope to hell it’s not all about me. She huffs out another breath and looks away, waving a hand.

“They were my special shoes. They were a … gift and they’re very expensive and I really liked them.”

“A gift from your boyfriend?” I ask with no shame and some nerves waiting for her answer.

“No. I … don’t have a boyfriend. I’m focused on my career. Like you.” My eyes pop wide and the grin spreads reflexively. She doesn’t really mean exactly like me. I can hardly picture her as a player catting around four or five nights a week bringing home different guys each time. She puts the bag under the seat and sits, then looks at me with a tilt of pride to her chin. “Okay, they weren’t exactly a gift. I bought the shoes for myself. They were a splurge, a reward to myself for landing this job.” She shakes her head and looks away. “And now they’re gone.”

“Not necessarily. They can be fixed. You’re a fixer aren’t you? Hell, you’re fixing me and my fucked-up reputation, right? A pair of designer shoes with a broken heel ought to be a piece of cake.” Then she smiles. And fuck if I don’t feel that smile right in my gut. It blows past my dick and hits me straight where it counts. Exactly where I don’t want her to be.

“You’re right. Thanks for listening, Knight. I’ll see if I can get the shoes fixed. Eventually.” She drags her smile away from me, clears her throat, and goes back to business-minded Harper.

Three

Harper

I should feel a tiny bit silly that we’re sitting in first class when I was trying to tell Maddox he’s being demoted to less than special status. But he doesn’t give me a hard time about it unless I count his borderline goofy grin. I feel a whole lot sillier about losing my heel and nearly tripping. My poor shoe. I shouldn’t mourn, but that was my Christian Louboutin Pigalle Follies patent red sole pump. And I loved it. It’s stupider than silly that I want to cry or spit or both that I broke my heel and it fell to its death on the tarmac below. Gone forever .

Then for my further humiliation, I had no choice but to dig through my bag for backups so I don’t have to schlep through Logan airport on one and a half shoes when we land in Boston. But all I have are my evening sandals.

My professional appearance will be nearly impossible to pull off with these sparkly spikes. Shit. The least I can do is behave professionally.

I grab my Kate Spade bag and slip out my tablet to check emails and act businesslike. But even with the larger first-class seats, Knight’s presence is overpowering, distracting me. I can smell him and it’s one of those crazy knockout combinations of soap, mint, and man.

Did I mention his special personal man-scent? Whatever it is, whatever’s in his sweat, I wish I could bottle it and sell it. Or better yet, keep it all to myself…

“Working?” he asks. I jerk my head up, hoping he can’t read my mind by seeing the flustered guilt on my face.

“Yes," I say quickly and launch into my most official and extended explanation in an effort to convince him I'm all business. "I’m reviewing some of the apartment and condo listings sent to me by our real estate agent.”

“The agency has a real estate agent?”

“Not exactly ours, but we do work with her frequently when—