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He reaches for my arm, curls his hand around it. His touch feels so good. “The seat’s empty.”
“Good,” I say, then squeeze into the row, but there’s a tap on my shoulder. “Mr. Chandler?”
It’s Grace. I turn to her. “Yes?”
Her grin is conspiratorial. “We have an empty seat in first class. Would you like me to move Mr. Colburn so the two of you can sit together? It would be my pleasure.”
“Yes,” I say.
I don’t even wait for Hunter to weigh in.
Inside of five minutes, Grace has moved me into the third row, and Hunter is sliding in next to me. “She’s a fairy godmother,” he says.
“She is.” I fight off my smile. But then, fuck it. I’m happy he’s here.
Once he’s settled, I lean closer and speak softly. “I didn’t even wait for you to answer, but I don’t care. Sometimes I’m bossy.”
Hunter laughs. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He adds, “Plus, I wouldn’t have denied you. You plied me with warm nuts first.”
“Warm nuts are the answer to everything.” I relax a little, sinking back in the seat. “How do you feel?”
He lifts a brow in question. “Do you mean my hangover?”
“Yeah. Do you have one?”
Looking smug, he shakes his head. “Nate, I ordered egg sandwiches and made us both drink water. I’m a planner, so I feel fantastic.”
“You are,” I agree. My gaze snags on my ring, then his.
He is great, but I still don’t want to be married. I still don’t want this ring.
Not. At. All.
But we have a plan to undo our vows. I flash back to the speed and calm with which he handled the research. “You must be a good producer. You were pretty whizz-bang with the whole”—I peer around—“annulment thing.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I like to solve problems. That’s what a producer does.”
“I appreciated it,” I say, grateful he had his wits about him.
“I’ll make sure everything’s sorted.” Then he gives a yawn, a big, powerful one.
I pat the seat controls on the armrest. “Want to sleep?”
His eyes pop. “Oh, fuck me. These seats go back, don’t they?”
I crack up. “They motherfucking do.”
“Oh, god,” he moans. “I bet they have blankets and pillows too.”
“The whole nine yards. Want me to tuck you in?” I tease as he grabs both from the seat back.
“I wanted you to do that last night,” he mutters.
Growling, I narrow my eyes. “Dude, you face-planted first.”
“No, you did,” he tosses back.
I shake my head. “Nope, that was you. You were out in a second.”
“I don’t believe it,” he says, crossing his arms.
I stab a finger against my sternum. “I was raring to go,” I say, kind of proud of how much I wanted him last night, even when I was drunk.
“You were sound asleep too,” he argues.
“About two minutes after you. I spent the first two minutes whimpering right along with my dick. We wanted you.”
“You and your dick? Both of you?”
“We’re a package deal,” I say.
He dips his face, laughing. When he stops laughing, he looks at me with heat in his eyes, a tender desire too. “Damn shame.”
My chest warms. “The things I wanted to do to you…”
“The things I wanted,” he whispers too.
But we have zero free time in London. Instead of dwelling on disappointment, I lower my seat too.
Hunter closes his eyes first.
“Yup. Just like last night,” I tease.
“Yes, Nate. I crashed before you, and trust me, it’s the thing I regret most from last night.”
My dick and my heart like that remark so much.
When I wake, Hunter’s head rests against my shoulder as he snoozes. Mmm. That’s real nice. I angle closer, inhaling deeply. My stomach flutters as I catch the fading scent of the shampoo I used on him last night. He smells like the forest, and now I want to spend a day hanging out among the trees.
More than a day. Maybe a week.
He shifts, then mumbles. I adjust myself too, sitting up in my seat as he rouses. When his eyes open, he shoots me a sleepy smile that I want to see again and again.
I want to invent twenty-five-hour days so I can steal time with him in London.
But that flutter in my stomach is a warning that I feel something for him. Hunter could hurt me. I don’t want to be hurt again.
On the field, I take hit after hit all day long. But my body is resilient and I bounce back like a champ. My heart’s pretty banged up though.
I’ve got to keep it closed off.
I try to reset to a cool and casual vibe as we eat breakfast together—it’s Sunday morning now, thanks to a ten-hour flight and an eight-hour time difference.
While we hurtle toward London, we don’t talk about our annulment. Instead, after we eat, he tells me about the book he’s reading on storytelling styles in films. Then he asks me what I’m reading. I grab my phone, showing him the Axel Huxley thriller on my audiobook app. “I’m addicted to his books. My buddy Jason’s boyfriend is too. Beck’s the QB for—”
