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4. The Touch of Your Hand
Cash
And a temporary moment of insanity.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, horrified by my unforgivable actions. I’ve known this girl for a couple of hours, but it feels longer. A sheen of inquisition deepens her brown eyes, and I’m positive she’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
She isn’t the only one.
Smoothing her palms over jean-clad thighs, she turns her attention to the window. It’s a move I’m coming to recognize as a nervous one.
Pull it together, man.
But the ensuing silence, which was comfortable before I lost my head and almost kissed her, is stifling. I raise a hand to tug at my tie, except I’m not wearing one. The constriction around my neck and the tightness in my pants is all her doing.
The plane hits more turbulence, and the seat belt light comes back on, followed by a reassuring message from the pilot. My flight companion isn’t reassured. She holds the armrests in an impressive death grip, and I’d give anything to cover her hand again because she seems so damn scared.
But I don’t dare touch her. She brings out a weakness I hadn’t realized I possess—the ability to feel something for a woman who isn’t my wife. Guilt lances deep, staggering in its searing truth. I could justify my lapse of judgment by placing blame on Monica’s infidelity, but I won’t.
My wife’s shitty actions have no bearing on my own. I’m attracted to this beautiful woman with eyes the hue of sable, and hair that falls in soft sheets over her shoulders—gorgeous honey-blond hair I’d love to sink my fingers into again because I’ve never touched strands that silky.
Hell.
Dragging air into my overworked lungs, I force her hair and eyes from my mind. But my dick refuses to settle down, so I place my hands in my lap to hide the erection that won’t quit.
“Tell me about your friend in Seattle,” I say, desperate to break the silence. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about her friend at the moment, but we both need something to shatter the awkwardness that’s fallen over us.
“I met her in—” Another jolt of the plane cuts her off.
Jesus. What is it about this girl that brings out my protective side? My hands are tight balls of frustration in my lap. I’m a few seconds away from brushing my fingers over her skin again. I want to take away her fear. More than anything, I want those arresting eyes of hers back on me.
“You’re probably wishing you weren’t stuck with a total basket case right now,” she says.
To hell with it.
I grab her hand and entwine our fingers. “Not at all, Jules.”
Her attention lowers to our hands for a few seconds before she meets my eyes. “You’re very kind.”
I’m very messed up in the head, but as long as my touch soothes her nerves, I’ll keep touching her.
“I’ve flown a lot. Trust me, this kind of turbulence is normal, especially during a storm.” No way will I tell her that I hate it as much as she does. “You were telling me about your friend,” I remind her.
She lets loose an exhale that disrupts the fine blond strands framing her cheeks. “I met Lesley in college. She majored in business like me, but she’s a free spirit.” A smile I can only describe as fond shapes her lips. “She moved to Seattle to chase her dreams. Joined her brother’s band.”
“Another gutsy move. I can see why the two of you are friends. So what about you?” I say, lifting a brow. “Got any dreams you’re chasing?”
“I’m boring. My last job was in an office.”
Boring, my ass. Everything about her intrigues me. There’s an air of mystery shrouding her, and maybe that’s why I’m so entranced.
“I wouldn’t call you boring,” I say with meaning.
She dips her head but still can’t hide the pink tinting her cheeks. Relaxing her free hand against the armrest a little, she says, “At one point, I wanted to be a writer.”
“Yeah? Did you ever explore that?”
“A little. I wrote a few short stories in high school.”
