“I don’t see the problem.”
“‘I’m sexy and Italian—got meatballs?’” I deadpan. “Did you do this on purpose?”
“I simply asked Fiorella if she had something you could change into so you’re not wearing a sticky shirt.”
I glance toward the counter, but Fiorella is gone—probably halfway into a group text about the American girl who can’t handle her cappuccino. “I’m not wearing this.”
Ben shrugs. “Okay, but your blouse is see-through.”
“What?” I press the sweatshirt to my chest and peek down. My eyes snap back to him, but all I catch is his back as he strolls toward the exit with my bag. “It is not.”
But I slip the sweatshirt over my head, just in case, and hurry after Ben.
“I can get a taxi,” I say, reaching for my bag.
“Just say thank you.”
“What?”
He holds open the glass door, eyes steady. “It’s okay to say thank you and accept help.”
His tone is kind, but it still lands like an admonishment. I wasn’ttryingto be ungrateful. And if Ben hadn’t shown up when he did, I’d probably still be at the counter, waging war with my limited vocabulary and Fiorella’s painfully polite pity.
At the curb, a sleek black BMW with dark-tinted windows glides up to the curb. The driver steps out, takes my bag, and loads it into the trunk. Ben opens the back door and waits.
I hesitate.Accepting help always comes at a cost.Sometimes it’s monetary. Sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes it costs everything. When you grow up without the means to pay the price, you learn it’s safer to rely on yourself. But tonight? I’m too tired to negotiate the emotional fine print.
“Thank you,” I say quietly as I slide into the back seat.
Ben climbs in beside me, setting a leather bag on the floor by his feet before loosening the top button of his shirt. Then he rolls up the sleeves—and I instantly regret looking. Forearms should not be allowed to be that distracting. The driver shuts the door, and the car eases away from the curb.
I look at the bag by his feet. “Is that all you brought?” I ask, needing to fill the air with something other than the heat crawling up my neck.
“My luggage is already in the trunk.” He settles back, perfectly at ease.
I glance at him, trying not to look like I’m comparing. But I am. He looks like he just strolled out of a spa—not a transcontinental flight. His shirt isn’t even wrinkled. Meanwhile, I’m one wrong move away from smelling like a milky espresso for eternity. I sweep my hair into a topknot and will my pride to recover. “I thought my flight was the last one in.”
“It was.”
I frown. “Then how—?”
“Private jet.”
Of course. I look away, jaw tight. There has to be a middle road somewhere between coach and criminal luxury. Maybe a semi-ethical economy plus with no champagne but just enough legroom for themorally superior? I push the envy down and sit straighter. I need to remember who I’m talking to—who heworksfor.
If I’m stuck in the car with Ben, I might as well try to learn something useful for Athena. “So,” I say casually, “you must do pretty good business to afford flying private.”
“It’s the company’s jet.”
Not helpful. “Do you travel out of country a lot for work?”
“Not really.” He shifts and his knee bumps mine. A little zing dances across my skin, and I pretend it didn’t happen. I subtly move my leg away. “What about you?” he asks. “I thought you were flying in with Mr. Edmond and Sebastian.”
I shrug, slouching deeper into the seat. “I had some work to do at the office,” I lie.
He nods, then reaches for his bag, unzips it, and pulls out a pack of M&M’s. He opens it and holds it toward me. “Still your favorite?”
My stomach tightens at the sight of them—comfort food, sugar therapy, and one of my oldest coping mechanisms. I want them. Badly. But I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
