Page 15 of The Devil of Downtown

Yeah, who am I kidding?

Her hand shoots out instinctively, catching mine. For one suspended second, I don’t move. Can’t. Her palm is small, warm, clinging to me like that’s where it is meant to be. And I don’t let go.

Not until sense prevails and I slide my hand out of hers.

I retreat to my seat, back to my laptop, trying to pretend I’m still capable of stringing numbers together. The rest of the flightblurs past in a haze, the skyline shifting, melting into new colors, new time zones.

By the time the lights of London burn beneath us, I’ve hardly slept a wink. It’s impossible with her lying there, lips slightly parted, her skirt bunched a little too high, looking like every wet dream I’ve ever had.

Sleeping Beauty clearly doesn’t have the same problem. I almost envy her. Since the accident, sleep has become a rare commodity. Sleep leaves room for silence, and silence is when the demons crawl in. The demons I keep at bay with work and women.

I glance out the window as the plane slows and jerks to a stop. A black limousine already waits on the tarmac, gleaming under gray skies. I shrug into my jacket, but when I look back, she’s still out cold.

“Sloane.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.

Nothing.

I crouch and brush her arm with my hand. “Sloane.”

This time, her lashes flutter. She blinks against the sunlight streaming through the window, hand rising to shield her face.

“Did you say Sloane?” Her voice is groggy, disoriented. “Is Sloane okay? Where is she?”

Her eyes finally lock on mine. For a blissful heartbeat, her mouth curves into a slow, lazy smile—and Christ, it hits me right in the goddamn balls. It takes a second for her brain to catch up, but as soon as it does, the smile evaporates. Panic sparks across her features. She jolts upright, tugging her skirt down, smoothing her hair back with quick, frantic fingers.

“Shit, shit, fuck...”

I stand, plucking her backpack from the overhead and holding it out, one brow lifting. “I’ve had better morning greetings, but full marks for originality. By the way, do you always refer to yourself in the third person, or is that a pre-coffee ritual?”

She breaks into nervous laughter, her eyes darting everywhere but at me. I’ve made a career out of detecting bullshit. So why can’t I shake the feeling she’s hiding something?

“Oh God, did I sleep the entire flight?” She presses her fists into her eyes like she can erase the evidence.

“Like a baby.”

“How about you?”

“How about me, what?” I frown.

“Did you get some rest?” She gnaws down on her bottom lip as if she overstepped the mark just by asking a simple question. The truth is, I’m not used to people asking me those kinds of things. It’s usually about what people need from me.

“I don’t need rest.”

“Everyone needs rest.”

“I’ll rest when I die.”

“Well, that will happen a lot quicker if you take that attitude.” She scoops up the pile of colored folders, holding them to her chest like she’s preparing herself for battle.

“So, as well as a traveling filing cabinet, you’re also a lifestyle guru.”

She rolls her eyes in good humor, flashing that lethal smile that tugs at something I’m unwilling to unpack.

“It’s just basic biology.” She shrugs.

With her free hand, she pulls her hair loose, smoothing it down with her palm. Something about the action is oddly fascinating, but I pull my head back into the game.

I slip back into business mode, my tone clipped and steady. “Come on. Car’s waiting. We’ve got an hour to clean up before Bexley.”