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“I changed my mind,” I manage. “Whiskey. The catch is whiskey. Bring it to me in the last row by the toilets, because that’s definitely where your seat is, isn’t it?”
That mouth moves into a smile, and Jesus Christ, they’re going to kick me off this flight because I’m about to pop a legit woody right here in the middle of this godforsaken airport.
She’s so close. So close. Facing me, tits almost brushing against my chest every time she inhales.
“You’ll be happy to hear I’m in the exit row, actually. An aisle seat too—10C.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m happy about that.”
She isn’t moving away from me. Why isn’t she moving away from me? There’s room now because the guy in front of us is boarding, holding his phone over the scanner at the flight attendant stand.
“Hey. You were the one who offered to switch.”
“Offer stands.” Just like my dick.
She gets that soft look in her eyes again. “Thank you, Morgan. This is very sweet of you. And very unexpected.”
“Just get on the damn plane, would you?” I nod at the flight attendant waiting for us. “Don’t forget the whiskey.”
She doesn’t. We depart on time, and as soon as the captain turns off the seat belt sign, Nora is standing beside my aisle seat in the exit row, two tiny bottles of Jack Daniel’s in hand. I reach up to take both of them, but she smiles and shakes her head.
“What’s this?” I ask, watching her crack the top off one bottle before handing it to me.
“I’m not going to let you drink by yourself. Figured I’d slum it to keep you company.”
I take the whiskey, our fingers brushing for a split second. The heaviness inside me begins to ache. Fuck. “No mixer?”
She takes the top off the other bottle and taps it against mine. “We’re taking it straight, Morgan.”
I stare at her for what feels like the twentieth time today.
“What?” she asks.
The plane banks to the left and bright afternoon sunlight slants through the windows, making us both blink. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a douche—”
“You are a douche.”
“Well, yeah, but—I took you for more of a Chardonnay person.”
She grins, and I blink again. “I love Chardonnay. I also hate to fly—you were right about me being nervous. Whiskey takes the edge off a little faster.”
“Let’s see it.” I nod at the Jack Daniels, still not believing a word she’s saying. “You take that without making a face, and you can have my seat up front on the way home too.”
“Stop being sexist.”
“I’m not saying women can’t shoot whiskey. I’m saying you can’t.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m a square?”
“Because you’re . . .” Too prim and proper and princess-y to ever chug Tennessee brown water in economy class.
“Do us all a favor and don’t finish that sentence.”
“Yup.”
She holds up her whiskey. “You have a deal.” And then she tips back the bottle and drains it in three thirsty gulps. Licking her lips, she screws the top back on the empty bottle and drops it into my lap. My dick twitches. Literally presses up against my fly and starts to scream, and it’s all I can do not to let out a frustrated groan. Instead I shift in my seat and give my jeans what I hope is a discreet tug.
The guy in the row across from mine is looking at Nora. He starts a slow golf clap. I shoot him a glare and he immediately stops, picking up the magazine he was reading.
“Thanks for the first-class round-trip ticket,” Nora says. “But really, are you going to be okay back here? Once this buzz kicks in, I’m happy to—”
“No. Nope. Fine.” I knock back my own whiskey and wait for the buzz to kill my boner. It doesn’t.
The captain comes over the intercom to tell us she’s expecting a smooth flight.
Nora smiles. My dick goes full salute.
Chapter Thirteen
Nora
Montecito, California: or, as I like to call it, rich peoples’ paradise.
Walking down Coast Village Road at sunset, I inhale a lungful of balmy air and wonder where I can find a billionaire bachelor to hitch my wagon to so I can afford to live here. Theo was onto something; there’s a reason why Oprah chose this little slice of heaven as her home base. Adorable boutiques and lovely restaurants line the sleepy main street, where Teslas and G-Wagons compete for angled parking spaces in front of the sweetest coffee shop or sexiest vegan lunch spot you ever did see. To my right, mountains rise into a cotton-candy colored sky. To my left, I can just hear the low hum of the ocean and taste its brine in the air.
It’s a world away from Charlotte—from the trading floor—and I promised myself that tonight, I’d set down my anxiety about Brian and BamCo and Theo Morgan and enjoy the world’s best fried chicken sandwich at Honor Bar, my favorite restaurant in Montecito. It’s a tiny place, not fancy but certainly delicious, with a huge, U-shaped bar that’s perfect for people watching.
