The last team member is a guy named Pete. He’s a tire technician,and rather than traveling with the rest of his crew, he stayed back to help the manufacturer with post-race testing on Monday.
As each person boards, they exchange greetings and chat with Alaric, clearly comfortable in his presence. A shroud of awkwardness settles over me as I sit in my seat and try to look unaffected by the man across the aisle. We’ll land in Nice in less than two hours, but unfortunately, I didn’t pack anything in my carry-on to pass the time.
I assumed Alaric would have my full attention during the flight, which seems silly now. Even if it was just the two of us on this plane, there’s still the crew to consider. Any hopes I had of joining the Mile High Club are really more like far-fetched dreams at this point.
Takeoff goes smoothly, and before long we’ve reached cruising altitude.
“Evan, want to play Texas hold ’em?” Ian holds up a deck of cards.
I’m good at poker. Really good, in fact. And playing is a great way to pass the time. It’ll also help distract me from ogling Alaric in front of our colleagues.
“Sure,” I tell the guys as the seat belt sign goes off. “I’m game.”
Leisurely, I stand roll my neck from side to side and use the seat in front of me for leverage as I stretch my back. Then I move across the aisle to join their seating section, discreetly peeking at Alaric, whose head is bowed, his focus set on his laptop.
“Do you know how to play?” Vinnie asks, shuffling the cards with large, tatted hands.
I can’t fight back my grin. So much for keeping my cool. My poker face is shit.
“I’m from Texas, boys. Deal me in and prepared to be whooped.”
CHAPTER 36
ALARIC
My blood pressure is undoubtedly hitting dangerous levels.
If I’d adopted the habit of wearing a fitness device like so many of my acquaintances, it would be sounding the alarm over my raging vitals.
I’m being irrational, yes. But that self-awareness does nothing to quell the poignant jealousy coursing through my veins.
Yanking my seat belt loose, I open the buckle and rise to my feet.
“Evangeline.”
Her head snaps up, the thin red hoops dangling from her ears swaying with the motion.
“I have some questions about the content categorization from the recent social listening data collected from the grandstands,” I say. “Can we speak about it in private?”
Her brows fly into her hairline, then as my request registers, she gives me a shrewd look.
She wasn’t in the grandstands on Sunday. My request is bullshit. An excuse to get her alone. An attempt to get my head on straight.
I hold my breath, waiting for her answer. It’s risky, catching her off guard with a baseless claim. She told me she’s an awful liar, and she prefers directness and clear communication. On top of that, it’s arguably certifiable to ask for a private audience in front of other team members within the confines of this plane.
But if I have to witness her smile at or exchange quips with the guys from the culinary team for even one more second, I fear I’ll lose it anddo something outrageous like pull her into my lap or kiss her senseless so they all know she’smine.
Finally, mercifully, she nods. “I’m out, boys,” she tells the men who have commanded all her attention over the last half hour, pushing her cards toward Ethan or Evan or whatever his name is.
Typically, I make it a point to learn the names of every member of our team. Though at this moment, with my composure hanging on by a single, fraying thread, I can’t find it in me to care.
I snatch my laptop from my seat, and as Evangeline approaches, my palm instinctively finds her low back. I guide her toward the private suite in the back of the plane, stalking closely behind.
When we approach Mick, he raises both brows, his focus darting from Evangeline to me.
Scowling, I drop my hand from her back.
Mick and I have known each other for more than two decades. He’s a good friend, but he’s also most likely to call me on my bullshit and see right through this charade.
