Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(30)

CHAPTER EIGHT


JASON AND I huddle together, the plane shifting and swaying around us, and he is warm, and strong, and scarily right in ways I don’t understand. Or maybe I do. He’s holding me when I’m afraid. No one holds me when I’m afraid, and I don’t even like the idea of leaning on someone and liking how it feels. And yet I do. Right here, right now, I do, but this is a moment, not a lifetime, and it means nothing.

“You okay?” he asks as the plane levels off.

I inhale and let it out. “I am. I just . . . I hate this flying thing so much.”

He laughs, caressing a lock of hair behind my ear, the intimate act meaning nothing despite the funny things it does to my stomach. “This flying thing?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “This flying thing.”

“How many times have you been on a plane?”

“Three or four times, mostly when I was a teen.” The plane jerks and I grab his shirt.

“Easy, baby. It’s just a little air pocket. The closer we get to Vegas, the more likely there’ll be bumps. The heat creates turbulence.”

“Oh, great. I can’t wait.”

“One good thing about flying often is that you learn how much a plane can take and be just fine.”

“I won’t be flying often enough to find that out.”

“What about when you’re a lawyer and a client wants you to travel?”

I dismiss that idea. “That won’t happen.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I have years before I have to worry about that, if at all.” He studies me for several long moments, his expression unreadable, but I try to put words in his mouth. “You think I’m a coward.”

“I do not think you’re a coward.”

“Yes, you do,” I accuse.

He cups my head. “You stood up to me and Daniel. You’re fierce.” He kisses me. “And we’d better eat before I put you on the menu and defeat the purpose of getting you your own hotel room.” He unhooks his seat belt, then reaches over and unhooks mine.

I grab it and try to reconnect it. “What are you doing?”

He pulls me to my feet. “Feeding you.”

My heart sputters. “Shouldn’t we stay buckled in?”

“The table seats have belts, if it makes you feel better.” He backs up and leads me to a booth, the plane shaking right before I’m ready to sit down, and I wrap my arms around his waist.

He holds me, flattening his hand on my back. “I told you. I got you.”

“You seem confident,” I accuse, and I’m not talking about him keeping me from falling.

“I am,” he says, clearly understanding my meaning as he continues with, “because I know I’m telling the truth. But you need to know, I get grumpy when I’m hungry, which means I’m about to live up to your claim that I’m an *.”

“That’s pretty grumpy.”

“Exactly.” He turns me and sits me on the cushion of the booth. “Which is why I need to eat and since I’ve heard your stomach growl no less than three times, I’d say you do as well.” He reaches overhead to remove the pizzas from the compartment above, setting the insulated bag on the table and pulling out the boxes before discarding it.

Then he bends down to open a small fridge and offers me a bottle of water. “I forgot to ask what you like. This is all I have in stock.”

“This is great,” I say, accepting it.

He sets a couple of plates next to the boxes, then scoots in next to me, and the second his leg touches mine I can’t think straight. Which is a problem, since I really need to climb out of this lust cloud and get to know him. I slide all the way around to the opposite side of the table and manage to have my gaze collide with his, and the connection jolts me to the core.

He arches a brow. “Running?”

Considering every time he touches me I melt like the cheese on the pizza, I say, “Yes. I can’t think when you keep touching me.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Briefly.”

“Very briefly,” he agrees, lifting the box lids and propping them up. “Looks good, right?”

“Yes,” I say, inhaling the scent of spicy tomato and bread. “And it smells heavenly.”

“It is. Dig in.”

I lift a slice of cheese pizza and put it on my plate, while he grabs one of each for his. “You said this is your usual order. Is it a good luck ritual before a tournament?”

“I don’t believe in luck. It’s just damn good pizza.”

“But still a ritual.”

“Yes.”

“Rituals are all about luck.”

“Rituals are about a certain groove you get into. A state of mind. And for me, that includes pizza.”

I want so badly to ask if he normally has an entourage, but I resist and take a bite of one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had. “Mmmm. Wow. It’s amazing.”

“I told you,” he says, finishing off a bite himself. “I always order two large, and eat the leftovers after I play and for breakfast the next morning.”

“You don’t go out to eat or get room service?”