Page 93 of Wait for Him

I refuse the retreat and take the seat directly across from her.

She doesn't look up again. Just keeps typing like whatever is on her screen has suddenly become the most fascinating document ever produced by mankind.

The attendant comes down the aisle with a carafe and two mugs. "Coffee before we take off, sir?" she asks, handing the first mug to Rose.

"Thank you, Jessica." Rose nods, takes it and sips.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

Jessica pours mine and moves on, and I settle back with the mug in my hand, still watching Rose over the rim.

Something isn't adding up.

Her face is locked down, sure, but Rose has never figured out how to make the rest of herself nearly as convincing, and I've spent too many years watching her to suddenly develop manners now.

It's an early flight, so I dressed for comfort: black Henley, backwards hat, shorts and sandals. The New York meeting isn't until this afternoon, and I'm not spending five hours trapped in a suit just to prove I own one. Rose has noticed the wardrobe choice too, because her eyes drop from her laptop, land somewhere below the table and snap back up so quickly I almost miss it.

Almost.

A minute later, she does it again, and this time I follow the line of her gaze straight to my thighs.

Huh.

I shift slightly in the seat, mostly because now I'm curious, and her fingers pause over the keyboard for half a second before she starts typing again. That's when I really start paying attention. There's a faint flush working its way across her chest above the camisole, and every so often she presses her thighs together beneath the table.

I've watched her do it three times now, all while maintaining that perfectly blank expression above the neck.

Then her eyes drop again, lingering just long enough to remove any remaining doubt about what she's looking at, and I have to take a sip of coffee to give my mouth something to do besides grin like a fucking idiot.

Holy shit. She's turned on.

And suddenly the last twenty-four hours start rearranging themselves in my head. Is that why she's been avoiding me? Maybe this isn't regret over the shower or embarrassment about waking up in my arms. Maybe she's been running because she wants me and doesn't know what the fuck to do with that any more than I do.

I look at her over the rim of my mug as she presses her thighs together again.

Whatever argument she's currently having with herself, it doesn't appear to be going particularly well.

This new development has my cock hardening against the seam of my shorts, so I grab my laptop and pull the tray table down over my lap before it becomes a whole thing.

You know what? On second thought.

I lift the laptop back off and return the table to its upright position. If she's going to spend this entire flight pretending she isn't looking, the least I can do is give her something worth the effort. This is going to be an interesting trip after all.

"Aren't you going to tell me good morning, Rosalie?"

I lean back and let my thighs fall open, just enough that what's happening in my shorts goes from suggestion to statement. I catch the exact moment it lands. Her whole chest stops moving for a split second before she locks it back down, but it's too late.

I've got her.

"Good morning, Jackson," she says on a breath.

"Why have you been ignoring me?"

Her tongue darts out and drags slowly across her bottom lip, and I can almost feel it on my...

"We needed boundaries."

"Boundaries," I repeat it back flat, like it's a word in a language I don't speak.