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Obviously, Troy had none for me.
After a silent cab ride, in which I stared out the window and moved my jaw from side to side while he made some cryptic business phone calls, we made it to the airport. We checked in, light-jogged our way to the terminal, two strangers with a mutual destination but very different paths, and waited for the flight wordlessly, both of us engrossed in our cell phones.
When my ass hit the seat on the airplane, it dawned on me that I was scared of flying. Scared of everything, really. Scared of leaving Boston for the first time, scared of doing it with Troy, of all people, and scared of the prospect that Brock had lied to me. Flying to Miami wasn’t going to do me any good, after all.
I’d told my husband that I wasn’t scared of him, but that was a lie. I was frightened. Not that he’d hurt me physically. I knew that’d never happen. But that he’d break me mentally. That, I had no doubt, was something he was more than capable of doing.
Naturally, turning to Troy for comfort was like turning to a hooker for abstinence tips. I quietly sank into my blue, first-class seat, chewing on my fingernails and hoping that the plane wouldn’t crash. Or maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. A whole life with Troy felt like a burden only convicted war criminals should serve.
“Before I fired him, Connor mentioned that you tried to run away. You think you can run away from me?”
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him in his seat. I watched him from my peripheral vision as I choked the armrest with my grip. His gaze was on his iPad, but his stone-cold-killer mask was on full display, his jaw hard. I half shrugged, pretending to stare out the window. I wanted to let him second-guess my next move. Be the one to keep him in the dark for once.
“It wouldn’t be a good idea to cross me, Sparrow.” He lifted his face, his menacing voice caressing my cheek. Every word echoed between my thighs.
I grimaced. This was not a good time to be turned on.
I licked my dry lips as the plane taxied down the runway, the wheels eating up the ground with incredible speed. Shit, it was fast.
His hand moved between us, hovering over my inner thigh but not touching.
I angled my hips away from him. “I’m a good runner.”
“And I’m an excellent chaser,” he whispered.
MIAMI TURNED ME into a sweaty mess of auburn curls, but it still stole my breath away. Like a first date with your high school crush, your first kiss underneath the bleachers and that very first cupcake from the overpriced bakery down the road.
Boston was a concrete jungle full of grungy-gray and staid-red brick buildings, whereas Miami was colorful, sunny and vivid. Boston was rainy, Miami, sunny. Boston was suited, Miami, bikini-clad.
It’s like I’d stepped into a parallel universe, where everything and everyone were more alive and vital. Well, other than the man who brought me here. He was much the same. All cold efficiency and barely contained fury. Troy was munching on a toothpick, as he always did. Toothpicks were his pacifiers, and he left them everywhere he went, like a fingerprint.
Our cab stopped in front of a resort-style hotel, two rows of tall palm trees leading to its entrance. I looked up and saw the vast, glassed-in balconies of each room, every patio boasting its own small, real-grass garden and swimming pool. The driver hopped out and ran to the trunk, yanking out our two suitcases. I got out, sucking in the humid air and fanning myself with my hand as I scanned the very foreign surroundings.
Brennan stayed in the car, rolling the toothpick between his teeth and tongue, his dark aviator shades hiding those eyes that pinned me every time they glanced my way. The suitcases sat between us on the walkway like bouncers trying to make sure we weren’t going to pounce instinctively and kill each other.
“Are your legs too precious to walk anymore? Do you need to be wheeled into the premises?” I mocked, venom dripping from each word. “Oh, I know, maybe I can give you a piggyback ride.”
“Funny.” He spat the toothpick to the sidewalk and leaned back into the seat of the cab. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“You’re leaving me here?” My voice prickled with edge.
He looked around us, like he wasn’t sure I was talking to him. “You don’t want me to touch you. You certainly don’t fucking want my conversation and you have my credit card. It’s your honeymoon. Check-in. Go have fun. I, myself, am planning to do the same.”
What? After everything he’d done, practically shoving me onto the plane against my will for this so-called honeymoon, he was going to just dump me in a hotel and abandon me like I was a stray cat?
