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Except for him.
Gone is that subtle, playful curl of his lips.
He’s smiling now.
Yikes.
And it’s so cold, so terrible, it’s like being smirked at by a vampire who’s decided to spare my life—but he still wants me knowing he can smell my blood. My fear.
Too bad. I’m not afraid of you.
I don’t know if I’m lying to myself, honestly.
Or if this shiver running through me is something else.
No. No. Absolutely not.
But I can’t look away from him and that cruel, devastating smile as he holds my eyes hostage for long, awful seconds.
My breaths grow shorter, shallower, and I can’t seem to move.
When he finally speaks, it’s like shattering glass. I suck in a breath to ease my tightening chest.
“Well,” he says. “This has been an enlightening exchange, but it’s over.”
With that cryptic comment, he stands, flicking his hand like he’s summoning a pet. His entire entourage rises, struggling to balance their tablets and carry-on bags like clumsy jugglers.
He’s carrying nothing but his own imposing self.
I knew he wasn’t a small man from the space he took up in the chair, but I hadn’t realized just how tall he was.
He looms over me now, his presence taking up all the space between us, and then it happens.
He fricking bows.
A slick, sweeping gesture, one arm across his body. Yet despite its courteous, practiced perfection, there’s nothing deferential or gentlemanly about it.
It’s like every ounce of his unbelievably toned body wants me to know he’s laughing without making a sound.
And when he straightens again, he tosses his hair out of his eyes with a cocky sweep of his head, a motion that also serves as a command to his groupies.
“Time for our flight. Take care, Miss Snoopy. I hope you don’t lose that naïve little sparkle in the frenzy.”
Oh. My. God.
I don’t think I’ve ever gone from zero to axe murderer so fast in my life.
But he’s already stalking away, gliding across the room in long, powerful strides that make everyone else in his wake seem smaller, obediently scurrying around his ankles.
Before I can even think of snarling anything at him and insulting his imaginary micro-dick...
He’s gone.
The door leading outside to the private runways closes in his wake, leaving only me and a few other passengers scattered around. Plus an anger so massive it feels like it’s crushing me into this pillow chair.
Groaning, I slump down in my seat, draping my arms over the sides and tilting my head back, eyes closing.
I just...
I don’t...
I can’t even.
What the hell was that?
Sure, maybe I’d eavesdropped a little, but he didn’t have to start a public fight.
At least I stood my ground.
I don’t do bullies. Especially not rich, entitled bullies with Zeus-complexes and Hercules good looks who act like they own the world, own the industry, own—
Wait.
I don’t actually know what he owns, do I?
Or just how big of a media mogul he apparently is. I don’t mess with his side of the industry, so I’m not familiar with the whales.
For a second, my stomach curdles. A single thought makes me ill.
He wouldn’t...would he?
He was so cryptic about who he was. Since I don’t make playing games like this a habit, I can’t read what he said.
Was he just screwing around with me or making a veiled threat?
Opening my eyes sharply, I sit forward, clasping my hands and pressing them to my mouth.
I can’t believe he’s a total psycho.
Surely, he won’t reach out, pull some strings to find out who I am, and get me fired from my shiny new job I foolishly told him about, right? Right?
And all over a testy exchange in an airport lounge.
Nah. That’s too petty even for a man who was just having a conversation about how boring superstar Milah Holly’s nipples are.
...I think.
I hope.
Anxiety knots up inside me, tangled up with anger until it’s all hissing steam with thorns and brambles.
When an attendant stops at my side five minutes later, I’m almost leaping out of my skin.
She bends over me with a painted-on smile, her lips so red.
“Miss Landry?” she asks. I almost flinch until I remind myself it’s part of the first-class experience for the staff to recognize you on sight and call you by name. “For you, courtesy of Mr. Osprey.”
She holds out a tall, thin flute of chilled champagne, the glass beading with condensation on the sides. I stare, but don’t take it.
“Mr. Osprey? I don’t know who that is.”
“The gentleman who just left.” Her smile never wavers. “He asked me to convey his sincerest congratulations on your new position.”
Speechless.
I don’t know what to say, but she’s waiting expectantly, so I flash a thin smile and murmur a “Thank you” as I take the glass by the stem. She nods crisply, then turns and struts away with a model’s poise, her heels clicking, making me think of that dick’s mocking mouse comment as I press my lips to the cool rim of the glass.
