This exact position she’s in.
Not here, of course. And sure as shit not now.
But on that plane.
When she was close enough that her hair brushed my shoulder, close enough that her thigh grazed mine—so close that I had to turn away because if I didn’t, I would’ve dragged her into my lap in the middle of commercial airspace and ravaged her pillowy, pink mouth with mine.
“Merde,” she mutters, the sound soft. She freezes halfway through blotting, hazel eyes darting up in a wide, wrecked look. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“But I ruined your shirt, the carpet. And you’re staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
I am. That’s the problem.
Her stare softens, those golden-green eyes locking onto mine with sudden awareness, sudden heat.
And fuck me, I feel that heat everywhere.
In my spine. In my pulse. In every blood vessel below the waist that decides to betray me at once.
Against every warning in my mind, my cock stirs. Once. Then twice.
I clear my throat. “I’ll get more paper towels.”
Except I don’t move or back away or blink. Because Harper is rising onto her knees, inches from me, her breath brushing my shirt.
My entire body is a tight rope—filled with all the latent rage of this arrangement. My body is on constant simmer these days, stewing with all the frustration and anguish that Harper Beaumont’s presence in my life has caused.
And still…
I can’t help myself.
I lean in, an unconscious move that feels more like a gravitational inevitability, my gaze falling to Harper’s mouth as her lips part, breath hitching as I?—
The door opens.
Rachel walks in, takes one look at us, and stops.
“Whoops. Am I…interrupting?”
“N-no, not at all.” Harper practically launches to her feet, reaching for her things. She scoops them up, hands frantic. “I was just leaving.”
She shoots me one last unreadable look before heading to the door and darting past Rachel, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hall.
My publicist sighs after a few interminable seconds.
“Jesus Horace Christ,” she groans, flopping down into the leather seat Harper abandoned. “What is it with you two? It’s like you’re one big accident waiting to happen.”
I’d argue, but to be honest, my publicist is exactly right.
Harper Beaumont and I together are a fated collision course, a ride I know I should get off of.
Instead I turn to Rachel, mentally buckling myself in my rollercoaster seat.
“It’s no big deal. But do me a favor, Rach?” I grab my phone, tossing it to her. “While Gina takes care of this,” I motion to my shirt, nodding, “you mind accepting my grandmother’s calendar invitation?”
