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Charming, wry Reagan was not going to make it any easier to keep my wayward lust under control.
I finished doctoring my coffee but remained by the counter, reluctant to take the empty seat at the table precisely because I wanted to so badly. But the sway of the bus made it impossible to drink standing either.
You’re being ridiculous, Thatcher.
I slid into the seat facing the front of the bus, steeling myself against the sucker punch of his blue eyes, but Reagan didn’t look up. I found my gaze straying out the window instead to the flash of snow-dotted fields in cold winter sunshine that sped past the window at top speed as the steady rumble of the bus vibrated up through the floor.
“There’s something meditative about being on a road trip,” I found myself saying. I wasn’t usually one to share stuff like that out loud, but I blamed it on not being fully awake yet.
Reagan didn’t seem to find my observation unusual. He glanced up from his breakfast to look out the window, also, and nodded pensively. “Mmm. Nice being away from the daily routine. You can ignore your messages and blame cell service.”
“That’s trickier when your boss is on the bus and the bus has satellite,” I said dryly. “But you’re right about the routine. I know January can’t come barging in and change the direction of my day, and Merriweather from Finance can’t pop in with a quick question. There are no business lunch commitments or evening social events to attend.”
Reagan tapped the laptop he’d pushed to one side of the table. “Hate to break it to you, but there are definitely business lunch commitments and evening social events you’re going to have to attend on this trip.”
“I know.” I sipped my coffee. “But it’s not the same. I can’t say I enjoy industry events. Small talk’s never been my thing. But I do enjoy meeting people in different places. It reminds me New York isn’t the entire world the way we sometimes think it is.”
Reagan looked at me curiously, and as expected, the aquamarine had my gut clenching with want. But with his eyes on me, I also felt like I could draw a deep breath for the first time all morning. It was a strange push-pull, wanting to be near him and wishing I was anywhere else.
“I assumed you’d prefer the city.” Reagan licked yogurt off his spoon, and I tried not to focus on the way his tongue licked greedily at the lucky utensil. “You were on edge in Honeybridge last summer, but you seemed to be in your element at the… uh. The other night.”
He glanced back out the window at the reference to the gala, and a faint tint of pink crawled up his neck.
“I do enjoy the city,” I agreed, distracted by that blush. “But being in my element that night wasn’t about the location, Reagan.”
Reagan’s startled face turned back to me, the pink flush deepening, and I snapped back to reality.
What the fuck was I doing? One distracting blush should not be able to loosen my tongue that badly.
I cleared my throat. “I meant that I feel comfortable in many places. The Hamptons. Stowe. My beach house in Hilton Head. Honeybridge, too. It’s beautiful there.” If I’d been on edge last summer, it had nothing to do with the town and everything to do with one distracting resident. “It’s always nice visiting your parents,” I added deliberately.
Reagan closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. “My parents. Right.” He plopped his spoon into his half-empty yogurt container and pushed it aside before pulling his laptop in front of him. “So. Work time. You promised you’d listen to my social media strategy, right?”
With just a few key clicks, he pulled up a slide deck, and I told myself I wasn’t disappointed. No matter how interesting Reagan was to talk to or how unexpectedly easy it was to let down my guard and be myself with him, we weren’t friends. He was my employee. My friend’s son. And my son’s friend, too… at least until last summer.
“Did Brant ever apologize?” I demanded before Reagan could launch into his presentation. “For trying to screw things up between your brother and Flynn Honeycutt?”
Reagan frowned at this topic change. “Yes. It wasn’t particularly sincere, from what I’ve heard, but he did it. You knew that, though. I was under the impression you made him apologize.”
“To JT and Flynn, yes. But has he apologized to you? He put you in a difficult position as a friend.”
“Thatcher…” Reagan rolled his eyes like I was hopelessly naive. “No, and I…” He shook his head and pressed his lips together like he was making a physical effort to hold back. “I didn’t expect him to. Now, the presentation?—”
“Speak freely,” I instructed. “Like last night.”
Reagan sighed. “Fine, then. Brantleigh and I know some of the same people, so I can’t help seeing him socially, but we’re not friends. The last time he messaged me, back in October, he wanted me to use my social media platform to help him get a lucrative sponsorship he’d done nothing to earn, as though he didn’t even remember what he’d done to JT.” His lip curled in disgust. “Speaking frankly? Brantleigh’s an entitled ass.”
A muffled sound of agreement came from the bunk behind me, reminding me McGee was listening… and that he, too, was not a fan of my son’s behavior.
I probably should have been offended on my son’s behalf, but unfortunately, this was all too easy to believe. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sorry that happened. Sorry for… how he turned out.”
Reagan’s gaze snapped to mine, and his eyes narrowed. “Ouch. Does my father say the same thing about me? Do you all trade stories about your parental failures over cigars at the country club?”
“First of all, no. Secondly, why would he? You’re bright and competent.”
He seemed flustered by my compliment, which made me want to do it again.
I refrained.
