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Callie’s lips twitch up.
“I’m sure you’ll keep doing it,” she says softly. “Our flight leaves soon, doesn’t it?”
“Day after tomorrow,” I assure her.
“Then I doubt it would hurt us to turn in early, enjoy the rest of our off time, and spend it with a clear head...don’t you think, Mr. Osprey?”
Mr. Osprey again.
Yeah, I deserve that shit.
I also know what she’s saying.
Let’s go our separate ways and act like it never happened, you shrieking fool.
“Certainly,” I bite off, staring out at the city flashing past because I can’t stand to look at her anymore.
We don’t say another word for the rest of the drive.
When the driver lets us off outside our hotel, she’s bolting out of the car before it’s fully stopped.
My gut churns.
I stagger out slowly. Somehow, we still end up in the elevator together, perched in opposite corners and not quite looking at each other.
How does this stupidity feel worse than a teenage breakup?
Her floor comes before mine as the elevator rolls up, and she brushes past without touching as the doors open.
She stops abruptly, though, her hand on the door to keep it from closing, looking over her shoulder at me. Just a glimpse of grey eyes, inscrutable and shielded, before she flashes a careful smile.
“Good night, Mr. Osprey. Thanks for the fun.”
“Good night, Ca—Miss Landry,” I snarl, curling my lip.
Good night feels more like I’m sorry, even if I can’t explain this burning regret in the center of my chest.
She strides forward.
The doors slide closed.
Then she’s gone, the steel barriers closing off all that bright color and leaving me alone in the cold, monochrome world I call home.
* * *
I don’t sleep that night, or the night after.
I’d bet every share I own that Callie doesn’t, either. She looks dead on her feet when we board my jet for the flight home a day later.
She’s out cold before takeoff, tucked in a chair in a seating arrangement far from where she spent our last flight.
That’s okay.
If she wants to avoid me, that means I can’t hurt her or get her hopes up like the lumbering moose I am.
Annoyed and trying like hell not to be, I throw myself into rehashing new digital strategies with the team. That keeps me busy through the flight, buttoning my mind down on something besides agonizing about Callie’s heart.
Still. The moment I feel the shift in air pressure that means we’re landing soon, I can’t help looking over to watch her stir awake.
She blinks slowly, rubbing her eyes and the corners of her lips.
Today, they’re a shimmering peach shade that matches the sunset hue of her eyeshadow and the tropical-pink capris paired with a sunny-yellow tank.
Her gaze drifts to me.
Our eyes fuse in a quiet challenge.
Then hers slide away like she didn’t even see me, like she was looking right through me.
As many times as I’ve done that myself, it’s only fair.
I can’t help continuing to watch her, though, as she fiddles with her phone. She only glances up at the indicator lights overhead, then out the window, clearly waiting until it’s safe to turn it on.
Two seconds after we hit the runway with a thump, she’s tapping at her screen—only to go pale, her eyes wide, flicking back and forth over the device in a panicked jitter.
I don’t think.
I just move, tearing my seat belt apart and crossing the cabin.
“Callie? What’s wrong?”
“I-I don’t—I can’t—” She shakes her head, dropping her phone in her bag and snapping off her seat belt as she stands. She barely remembers to snatch her carry on before hurrying to the luggage area in the back. “I have to go!”
“Not yet, the plane’s still moving,” I growl after her, worry building in my throat.
But she’s not listening.
She’s digging around in the luggage rack, dragging her bags from the safety straps. I watch her with a sigh, well aware that my entire staff is staring at both of us in bewildered fascination.
I’m not worried about them right now.
Fuck it.
I leave Callie wrestling with her luggage and stride up to the cockpit. When I rap my knuckles sharply on the door and say, “It’s Osprey,” the lock unlatches.
The door opens a crack—just enough to see the pilot focused on taxiing us safely down the runway, his copilot leaning back in his seat and watching curiously.
“Radio control,” I say. “We need the ramp out the instant this plane stops moving. No delays.”
The copilot frowns. “What’s going on, sir?”
“One of our passengers has an emergency,” I say and leave it at that.
I don’t even know what’s wrong or if it warrants what’s probably a breach of FAA aviation protocols. Here I go, charging to the rescue, anyway.
What is it about Callie Landry that turns me inside out?
How is it that I’ve changed so much that I’d order the stars to dance for her if she asked?
