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We stared at each other across the table, thinking of how impossibly small the chances of this—us—happening had been. In a million alternate realities, one of us would have made a different choice and we’d have missed each other entirely. I found myself once again wishing I could read Thatcher’s mind. If he could go back to that night and change things, would he?
Would I?
“I like your beard,” I said. The words came out husky and low, and the slight tension in the air morphed into something hotter.
Thatcher leaned back in his seat and smirked a little. “Is that right? Maybe you should come over here and show me how much.”
But before I had a chance to move from my seat, the bus slowed, and a quick glance out the window showed that we were pulling into a truck stop, probably for one of McGee’s scheduled breaks. The man pulled back the curtain that blocked off the driver’s area and joined us a moment later.
“Morning,” he said, darting a shit-eating grin at both of us before turning to fix himself some coffee. “Did everyone have a… restful evening?”
Thatcher and I exchanged a look.
“Very,” Thatcher said blandly. “You?”
“Yup. Got to sack out on a real bed at my buddy’s place and stretch out—oh.” He snapped his fingers in an exaggerated gesture. “That reminds me. Thatcher, I meant to mention last night that Reagan was taking your bed, and you were supposed to sleep at the Martinezes’ house. But I guess you two figured it out, huh?” He leaned back against the countertop and lifted the mug to his lips, all innocence.
I covered my snicker with a cough. So that was how Thatcher had ended up in my—well, his—bed? I suddenly felt bad for every wrinkly comment I’d made. I owed McGee a solid.
“Did you get my message a little while ago?” Thatcher asked.
McGee’s sunny smile faded, and he nodded. “Picking up your new passenger at the airport in Omaha tomorrow? Yeah, I got it. Also got a weather alert about dangerously cold weather and the possibility of an ice storm in the region.” He shook his head. “Who the hell voluntarily flies to Nebraska in the dead of winter?”
“Someone dedicated,” Thatcher said, though he didn’t quite manage to sound enthusiastic about it.
“Or obsessed,” McGee muttered under his breath. He sipped more coffee. “Gonna be crowded.”
“Not really. One more person won’t matter much either way,” Thatcher replied.
“If you say so,” McGee said darkly.
Interesting. McGee might be the only person I knew, besides me, who didn’t seem to like Layla these days. But my issues with her were personal since she’d dismissed my ideas, accused me of causing a PR disaster, and… okay, possibly there was a little lingering resentment over the way she’d touched Thatcher in the leadership meeting since the only one allowed to be inappropriately proprietary about Thatcher was me. I wondered what McGee disliked about her.
“Anyway,” McGee went on before I could think about it too deeply, “if there’s ice, we’re pulling over. She’ll just have to get a room at an airport hotel. Assuming she makes it here at all, that is. My mom says there’s bad weather back in New York, too.” He sounded way too cheerful about this fact. “I sure wouldn’t wanna be hanging out on a dinky aircraft at twenty thousand feet while it’s snow?—”
“McGee,” I said sharply, noticing the way Thatcher’s jaw flexed.
“Ah, shit.” McGee winced and ran one large hand over his jaw. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t think.”
“It’s fine,” Thatcher said. “Really.”
But I wasn’t feeling quite so forgiving. I lifted my chin and glared at McGee. “Those sagging jowls of yours aren’t the only signs of your advanced age, are they?”
McGee sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I deserved that one.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. “Anyone need to step outside while we’re here? You sure? Okay, then.” He rinsed his mug, set it in the dish drainer, and stretched his muscular arms to the ceiling. “Gimme five, and then we’re back on the road.”
McGee headed for the hall bathroom, and an awkward silence descended over the table. Thatcher’s eyes lifted from his screen to meet mine, and a small smile tilted the edges of his lips. “You don’t need to defend me, Reagan?—”
My face went hot. “I wasn’t defending you, per se?—”
“—but I appreciate it nonetheless,” he finished.
Oh. The warmth in his voice had little flocks of rebellious butterflies flinging themselves between my stomach and chest, and I couldn’t think how to answer. Everything with Thatcher felt… different. None of my usual responses ever seemed to apply.
I grabbed my tablet and pulled it in front of me, hoping there were a few critical emails that required my attention as well… or that I could manage to pretend there were long enough for Thatcher to stop looking at me.
Unfortunately, the only important message was so unexpected my stomach dropped, taking all the happy butterflies with it.
I blew out a breath. “Wow. So, change of plans, I guess. Layla’s assistant booked me a flight to New York tomorrow afternoon.”
