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Sadly, I stripped it off and laid it with the dark, fashionably distressed and likely hip-hugging designer denim he’d also acquired.
My bag had been shoved between the seat and the couch on the other side, as I spotted the naturally-distressed strap hanging out. With a quick heave, I dragged it to the center aisle, unzipped it, and rifled through until I found what I needed.
Theo stepped out right when I was hopping one leg into my cut-off shorts.
“Ahem.”
His throat-clearing gave me pause, but I recovered enough to stand and button my shorts. I looked over my shoulder and realized his gaze was still on my ass. He’d totally seen my hot-pink G-string.
At least, I thought with relief,he didn’t see my scar.
My back had been to him, my cauterized wound well-hidden from view. No one except Kai had seen it, as I was incredibly protective. I didn’t wear two-piece bathing suits anymore—not that I’d had much cause to be on a beach—nor did I need to cover it during sex, since I had none of it, not since Theo.
Which was better left unthought of.
“You’re not wearing what I chose for you,” he said.
“Nope.” I bent down and hooked my shirt, a plain white tee, and pulled it over my black-lace scalloped bra. Then, I faced him.
He was dressed in low-slung jeans and an army-green V-neck tee. All designer, I was sure, hence the flawless pec-hugging and likely, butt-cupping, of the clothes.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not part of your winnings,” I said. “I’m here because I want to be, and I’ll wear what I choose.”
He shrugged. “Your decision.”
After being caught under his too-long stare, I wanted to squirm. It was if he could x-ray right through my shirt and see all I was trying to hide—scars on the outside as well as the inside.
“Can I help you?” I said after a time.
He gestured with a glance over my shoulder. “You’re blocking the aisle.”
“Oh. Right.”
God. I’d essentially become a black widow of poker these past two years but put me on a charter plane with the infamous Theo Saxon and I became an awkward pile of hormones who couldn’t get out of her own way.
I shifted, and he passed, our arms barely grazing, but enough that the static charge flowed into my fingertips. I pretended it didn’t happen and busied myself repacking my bag and tossing it onto an empty seat.
“Is there a bathroom I could use?” I asked.
Theo replied, without looking up from the newspaper he’d somehow acquired, “Through my quarters, toward the back.”
I muttered under my breath but headed to where he directed. I supposed in addition to the kiss that didn’t happen, last night’s argument didn’t happen, either. Theo was treating our interactions like a business meeting at a denim conference.
Once in the bathroom (surprisingly tiny for a private plane), I gave my face a good, cold scrub. I avoided looking too long in the mirror, knowing what I’d see. A tired, jaded, twenty-four-year-old. No need to reminisce.
I’d scouted my makeup bag and clunked it onto the marble countertop. The clicks and clacks as I sifted through were familiar and unconsciously comforting, like I was in my natural habitat, putting on makeup, like I always did at the start, or end, to the day—at the apartment with Verily, or at home with my parents, with Cassie coming up beside me, shouldering me out of the way so she could get in front of the mirror.
I allowed myself enough time to stare at my reflection, mouthI love youto my sister’s living ghost, then moved on.
I quickly applied concealer, a little navy eyeliner, and some tinted gloss. My hair was a lost cause, as having it blown around by a helicopter’s blades, tasting the salty air while on a yacht, and then playing poker on a dock didn’t exactly create tamed tresses. I finger-combed it up into a messy bun and called it a job well done. There was a shower available, and, from peering around the glass partition, some excellent travel-sized Chanel bath products, but there was no time.
So I did what any person in my particular position would do. Swiped the bottles into my cosmetics bag and zipped it up tight.
When I came back to my seat, Theo was still there, ankle crossed over knee, sipping a coffee and flipping through the news.
“Anything interesting?” I asked once I took a seat across from him, still hoping for caffeine instead of diluted seltzer.
