Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
He clears his throat, but I don’t look up. I can feel his gaze on my face, almost as if he’s willing me to lift my chin. The longer I don’t make eye contact or give him attention, the more he shifts in his seat like the silence is killing him.
“What are you reading?” he asks once we’re at cruising altitude.
“A book,” I say without looking up.
“What kind of a book? Thriller? Biography? Nonfiction?”
“It’s a romance novel.”
“What’s it about? And don’t say romance.”
I hide a smile and finally raise my gaze to his, only to catch his eyes sparkling. Good God.
“It’s about what every romance novel is about—a happy ending,” I say.
Seconds go by as my words sink into his brain. His brows lift, and a slow, sexy smile slips across his lips.
“Is that an innuendo?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
“Now I’m curious.” He glances at the book cover. “What’s the plot? Or is it just … happy endings?”
“There are enough of both to be satisfying.”
I lift my book and try to focus on the first line once again. But I don’t get past the fifth word before he speaks.
“What are you doing?” he asks, sliding his large hands down his thighs.
Is he serious? “Reading.”
“What am I supposed to do if you’re reading?”
Oh my God. I sigh and look at him. “I don’t know. Didn’t you bring a book or work or something?”
“Sure. But I’d rather talk to you.” He smiles broadly, as if this angle of attack usually works. “So are you going home to Columbus or visiting?”
I contemplate not answering him and sticking my nose back in my book. But he will poke at me until I cave … and I will cave. Being flirted with by him is a bit of an ego boost, whether he’s seriously flirting with me or not.
“I’m going for work,” I say, closing my novel.
He folds his hands on his lap, looking far too pleased with himself. Cheeky fucker.
“Same,” he says. “What do you do for work?”
“I just started a new job. We’re crafting a new marketing position, so there isn’t an official title yet. What about you?”
“On paper, I’m the director of operations for an investment firm. But I’m really the guy who cleans up messes my boss isn’t good enough to fix.”
“There are worse things you could do for a paycheck. At least he sends you first class, right?”
“I suppose that’s true,” he says, smiling as if there’s a joke I don’t understand. “He’s just a prick and sends me everywhere he doesn’t want to go himself.”
“No offense, but I think that’s just what bosses do.”
“Whose side are you on, Kelly Kapowski?”
I fight a giggle at the name and his obliviousness to it. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just the casual, neutral observer. But if he’s such a prick, have you considered looking for another job?”
“I can’t. It’s complicated.”
What’s that supposed to mean? “What about asking him for a transfer? Tell him you feel stagnant, and your creative juices could be used better in a new position. Anyone in management should appreciate your honesty. Besides, you perform best when doing something you want to do.”
His eyes sweep the length of my body. “You’re right. When I do what I want, my performance is unbeatable.”
Oh my God. My heart flutters wildly as I absorb the heat in his gaze. That line has several solid comebacks, but for the life of me, I can’t think of one.
“On a serious note,” he says, “if I tell anyone I can use my creative juices in a new position, it won’t be my boss.”
I laugh. “Okay, maybe you shouldn’t use that phrase at all. Juices aren’t very sexy.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“I’d challenge you to use juices in a sentence and make it sexy, but now probably isn’t the right time.” I glance up at the flight attendant, waiting for our drink order. “Another water for me, please.”
“Me, too. Thank you.” Tate throws her for a loop with his smile before returning to me. “I’ll take up that challenge when we have more privacy. But, for now, back to romance novels. Do you always read them, or is this a one-off?”
“A one-off?” I gasp in faux horror. “I’m firmly in my romance era, thank you very much.”
“Aren’t women always in their romance era?”
“All of the ones who want a happy ending,” I say with a wink.
“There are places besides romance novels to get those, you know.”
“Yes, and half of the places that advertise them lie.”
He lifts a brow and smirks. “There are still half who deliver beyond expectations.”
“And they always believe their product is the best on the market, so it costs too much to be worth the risk.”
He leans toward me, his eyes shifting from blue to green so wildly that it’s impossible to look away. “I happen to know of a happy ending free trial going on this weekend.”