Behind His Lens(48)

“But if you’d rather…” I goad, leaning in so that my breath tingles across her skin.

She rolls her eyes and brushes past me to get to the seat. I thought she was sexy on the phone, but seeing her pissed in real life feels like a wicked challenge I can’t wait to take on. Her butt brushes against my thigh, barely grazing the front of my pants. I inhale and clench my fist. Surely she didn’t do that on purpose, or she’s playing much dirtier than I was expecting.

I grab my carry-on bag and shove it under my seat as she sits down and gets comfortable. I can smell vanilla lingering in the air she just occupied, and I wonder if that’s the scent she chooses for body wash as well as lip gloss. I’m still fixated on that thought when she leans in, whispering so quietly that no one else can hear. “I don’t hate you.”

The words aren’t what stir my heart; it’s the tone she uses, as if she were murmuring sweet nothings into my ear instead of a white flag. I lick my lips, needing to adjust myself so I can sit more comfortably, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. The past few weeks have been hell. I can’t remember the last time I’ve gone this long without sex. I feel like I’ve reverted back to a fourteen-year-old. The slightest touch from Charley and I’m a f*cking goner.

Eyeing her out of the corner of my gaze, I see a slight smile gracing her lips. I don’t know how long she’ll be like this: open and receptive, but I’ll take it slow. Bennett told me about their conversation last night; I know I’m walking a thin line with her and I’ll be damned if I step over the edge until she’s good and ready.

We sit in silence until the jet taxis down the runway and takes off. She’s leaning on the palm of her hand and focusing on the expanse of pre-dawn darkness outside her window when I lean over.

“It’s always darkest just before the dawn,” I offer quietly, knowing a girl like her would appreciate the imagery in the proverb.


After a long pause, she asks, “How long until I see the light?”

“Sooner than everyone back on the ground. The plane is taking us to a higher perspective, so we’ll rise to meet the sun.”

“So we’re literally ‘rising and shining’?” she asks with a sly smile, sliding her gaze toward me to see if I appreciate the nuances of her humor.

I can’t help the overwhelming smile that grips my features.

“Was I right to think that you prefer the window seat?”

She nods.

“I’m a daydreamer,” she murmurs.

I mull over her revelation. “That doesn’t surprise me one bit. Were you always like that?”

She chews on her lip in thought, angling toward me slightly. “More so in the past few years. I think that’s why I like to run and paint. I run to get a break from my overactive imagination, and I paint so that I can use that same imagination. I don’t think I’d be able to function without a combination of the two.”

I can see the beautiful heaviness of her soul when she explains things like that. “I know what you mean. I’m a runner as well.

She smiles. “I kind of guessed from the soccer game,” her eyes linger over my chest and abs, “and other things.”

My hands grip the seat beneath her blatant appraisal of my body. Does she realize how obvious she is? How much she’s turning me on?

“Have you ever done a marathon?” I ask, trying to ignore our volatile chemistry.

“No, but I’ve been thinking about it lately. Maybe I’ll work my way up to one.”

I slip my leather coat off. The cabin is much warmer than the hanger was. “You should. It’s an amazing feeling when you cross that finish line.”

“Have you done the New York Marathon?”

“And Boston. I’m not sure which I prefer.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Impressive.”

I nod, wanting to turn the conversation away from me.

“Bennett told me you guys got dinner last night?”

“Yeah.” She drags her hand through her hair and twists it into a little ballerina bun, highlighting her elegant cheekbones and neck. “I’ve been nervous about the shoot, so I was happy for the escape.”

Why was she nervous?

“Since it’s your first cover?” I ask.

She bites her lip. “Yeah. I’m just not sure what to expect.” Her voice lowers to a whisper, but everyone’s immersed in their own conversations, so she shouldn’t be overheard. “I honestly feel a little out of my league,” she says, turning back to the window. My stomach sinks. She’s the most beautiful thing in the world and I hate that she can’t see that at times. She knows she’s pretty, but she shouldn’t be intimidated by the models on this plane; they don’t hold a candle to her beauty.