His words burned more going down than the whiskey had. And it only reminded me of our roles and how he viewed me, how he’d always viewed me—as Ian’s daughter.
“Did I say something to upset you?”
I shook my head. “No, but can I ask you something? Why did you invite me to New York? Not that I’m complaining. But we both know you’re more than capable of handling these clients by yourself.”
“Maybe I wanted to spend time with you,” he said, as if it were that simple. “And maybe…” He leaned in, his arm brushing against mine. My head was in overdrive, still trying to decipher his last statement, when he added, “It’s because I think you’re brilliant, and I value your opinion.”
“Thank you. I think you’re pretty brilliant too.”
He settled back in his seat. “Hell, if you weren’t going to grad school, I’d offer you a full-time job after this summer.”
“That means a lot, especially coming from you.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I lifted a shoulder, turning to glance out the window. We passed through the clouds, only occasionally catching glimpses of the land below. I didn’t feel as unsettled as I had before, the food and water helping quell some of my earlier anxiety.
“Sumner,” he growled, though his tone held a teasing note. When I didn’t answer, he tickled my side.
“Hey! No fair.” I blocked his hands, though I secretly loved it. “It was a compliment.”
“You think I don’t know what everyone says about me?” he asked. “That I’m a demanding asshole who insists on perfection. And expects the impossible.”
“No. I just didn’t think you cared.”
“You’re right.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “But I do care what you think.”
Before I could ask why, the flight attendant returned to check on us. I spent the rest of the flight wondering why he cared. And what it meant.
Chapter Ten
Ikept stealing glances at Sumner—on the flight, while we waited for our bags, during the ride to the hotel. I wanted to pull her into my arms and comfort her. And even though she seemed fine, I worried, nevertheless. I worried that I’d put her in a position where she felt the need to do something she wasn’t comfortable with. I worried that she was putting on a brave face—again, when she wasn’t okay. When she was suffering in silence. Boy, did I know what that was like.
The driver pulled up to our hotel before putting the car in park and coming around to open the door for us. “Here we are, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Thank you.” I climbed out and placed a tip in his hand before turning to help Sumner.
The driver unloaded the trunk, and Sumner stared up at the hotel, endless glass towering above us. Her black hair swirled about her shoulders, and she looked so powerful standing there. Nothing like the tearful girl on the plane, afraid we were going to die. No. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. She was proud. Confident. Beautiful.
She turned to face me, and a strand of hair fell across her face. She laughed, and I reached up to sweep it aside, both of us stilling as my knuckles brushed against her cheek. She licked her lips, and I tracked the movement of her tongue as I tucked the hair behind her ear, lingering a moment as if to ensure it stayed put. When, really, I couldn’t stop touching her.
Car horns honked in the distance, startling us both. And then all the sounds, all the people around us came back in a rush. She turned for the door, and I followed her inside.
People buzzed around, the hotel a hive of activity. In the lobby, banners welcomed the WAP Annual Summit. Sumner covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Again, I was reminded of her as a little girl. And while her expressions were similar, her mannerisms, everything else, was so different. She was different.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“The WAP Summit?” She laughed again. “Surely someone realized…”
“Realized?”
“That’s right, you’re a country boy.”
“Country music listener,” I corrected. It wasn’t the first time we’d had this argument, and it had become sort of a running joke between us.
“Well, ‘WAP’ was a really popular song this past year. And I’ll—” She tapped on her phone, holding the screen up to me. “Here.”
I skimmed the lyrics, amused by some of the inventive phrases including “pussy” or “wet-ass pussy” before handing Sumner back her phone. I wanted to laugh at the poor acronym choice, but now all I could think of was Sumner’s pussy. Was it bare? A small thatch of hair? Did she come from clit stimulation? Or did she like penetration?
