Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(35)

“Neither do I. I’m jealous.”

“What? That’s insane. You do, too! You’re the reason this even happened.”

“Auction hunting is different.”

“It’s daring. It’s different. Like you.”

“You know that journal I found?”

“The sexy one?”

“Yes. The woman is so much more than the sex. She was afraid to chase her dreams, but then she just did it. She took a risk, and it’s all documented in her writings. Her fears. Her excitement. Her daring. She’s making me think about my own decisions and life. And so are you. And I’m not talking about you taking a spontaneous trip to Vegas. I’m talking about how you’re fighting for a dream, working hard and pushing yourself with that goal in mind.”

“I am. It’s not always easy, though.”

“Believe me, I know. But you deserve Vegas, so go have fun with your sexy poker player. When are you home?”

“Tomorrow.”

“That’s too fast, but before you say it, I know, I know. You have work. Just promise to call when you get home so I know you’re safe. What’s this guy’s name?”

“Jason Wise. He’s nicknamed Red Bull as a player.”

“Googling the minute we hang up. I’m dying to know all about him. Call me when you can! I want details.”

“I will.” We end the call and I stare down at the phone. Risk taking? Me? Is that what working two jobs makes me? No. If I were a risk taker, I’d be in school now, risking my rent and grades.

“Everything okay?”

I glance up to find Jason towering over me. I unhook my belt and shove my phone into my purse. “Yes. Just thinking.”

He offers me his hand, and I slip my purse over my shoulder before pressing my palm to his and allowing him to help me to my feet. “What were you thinking about?” he asks.

“Life,” I say without hesitation.

“You were supposed to say me.”

I roll my eyes. “You really are a player.”

“Just at the tables this weekend, baby,” he says, a tightness to his voice that I don’t miss, his fingers catching at my waist, head tilting toward mine. “I promised you I’d behave, but make no mistake: I’m not going to like it.”

There’s an edge to him that hasn’t been there since we got on the plane, tension that can only come from whatever happened on that phone call. Before I can stop myself, I reach up and catch one of the long, loose strands of light brown hair that’s escaped the tie at his nape. “You okay?”

He looks at me with surprise in his eyes, seconds ticking by while he seems to be considering something. Me? Himself? Stephanie? “Skye—”

“Jason.”

At the sound of a man’s voice near the front of the plane, Jason’s lips tighten. “Later,” he says softly, telling me whatever he was going to say, I want to hear. Now. Not later, but still I nod, and Jason steps into the aisle, allowing me to see a fiftyish man in a blue uniform and crisp white shirt standing near the exit. Our visitor gives me a quick nod and then eyes Jason. “I have another flight out on a separate jet,” he states, confirming my suspicion he’s our pilot. “Break a leg tonight—or at least someone’s wallet.”

Jason gives him a salute and our pilot disappears out of the door. “I take it you fly with him often?”

“I request him when I can.”

“Because he’s a good pilot?”

“Because he’s a 49ers fan.”

I give him an incredulous look. “That’s how you choose your pilot? How about their experience? Their track record?”

“Every pilot this organization employs is damn good, but they don’t all know their football.”

“I guess you left your loyalty to New York in New York.”

“Home is where the heart is, and San Fran is my home now.”

“Football’s your heart?” I ask, stalling in the hope that he’ll restart whatever conversation we were about to have when the pilot interrupted.

“Anything San Francisco is my heart.” My hope of getting back to our prior conversation ends when he glances at his watch and doesn’t look pleased. “We need to get moving,” he urges. “We’re running behind. There’s a car for us outside.” He motions me forward and I walk down the short path to the exit, while a man I guess to be in his twenties, wearing a suit, grabs our bags and greets me. “Afternoon, ma’am. Your car is waiting.” He backs up and allows me to pass, and he and Jason exchange a familiar greeting. The laughter that follows tells me Jason not only has his poker face back on, but that he’s liked by everyone. Even I, who was afraid of him last night, like him. Probably too much.

I exit the plane onto a set of steps, the heat engulfing me, darn near choking the air out of me. “My God,” I murmur, as Jason steps beside me. “You can cut the heat with your hands.”

“A good hundred and ten degrees—a far cry from the seventies we left behind.” His hands settles at my back and we start walking down the surprisingly wide stairs. “Just one of the reasons I don’t live here.”

The man in the suit goes ahead of us and opens the trunk of a black sedan parked a few feet from the plane, then opens a rear door for us.