Page 18 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

"Would you like something to drink?" The flight attendant's sudden appearance at my elbow snaps me out of my spiral, and I jerk my head toward her.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

"It’s no problem,” I mutter. “Bloody Mary, please." I glance over at Shiloh, who still seems lost in her book, the words likely not registering as she pretends I don't exist. "Shiloh? You want anything?"

She lifts her gaze from the page, her eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away. There's a hesitation, a flicker of something I can't quite read in her expression. It's frustrating how she can switch off and shut down any hint of what she's thinking whenever she wants to.

"Nothing for me, thanks." Her voice is soft, almost too quiet for the hum of the plane's interior.

"Come on, we're on a company trip. It's on me. Get whatever you want." I'm not sure why I push, why it suddenly feels important that she accepts something from me. Maybe it’s a test, or maybe I just want an excuse to interact with her, to break through the wall she's put up between us.

"Fine. A Mimosa, then." She looks back down at her book, but there's a small quirk on her lips, a ghost of a smile that says she knows exactly what I'm doing.

And that maybe—just maybe—she's letting me do it.

My treat feels like a small victory, but the silence that falls between us afterward is thick, charged with all the words we aren't saying. I try not to let it get to me, focusing on the ice clinking against the glass as my drink arrives, and I take a sip.

"Thank you," Shiloh murmurs when her drink is handed to her, and I catch a hint of red creeping up her neck. It's probably the heat, or maybe it's...

"Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff," the captain's voice cuts through the cabin.

I look out the window, watching as the ground crews pull away and the plane taxis towards the runway. Beside me, Shiloh is still, her attention finally off the book as she watches the flight attendants demonstrate safety precautions.

The familiar spiel washes over me; I've flown enough to recite it in my sleep, but I watch anyway because she's watching. And because it feels like something normal people do.

Plus, it keeps my eyes off the walking, talking temptation sitting beside me.

"Please fasten your seat belts," one of the attendants says, her voice chipper despite the early hour.

"Already done," I mutter to myself, clicking the metal ends together with a satisfying snap.

Beside me, Shiloh does the same, a precise, practiced motion. She doesn't glance my way, but I'm acutely aware of every little shift, every breath she takes. It's maddening how she can be so close and yet feel so far away.

"Should've brought a damn book," I grumble under my breath, reaching for the in-flight magazine instead.

But my eyes aren't on the pages—they're on her, taking in the curve of her jaw, the way her hair falls over her shoulder, and the outline of her profile against the morning light.

I tell myself it's just the boredom of the flight ahead that has me so fixated on her. But deep down, Iknowit’s more than that.

It's always been more than that.

The silence between us stretches, a tangible thing, and I hate it. I hate that she's so close yet giving me all the space in the world as if I'm a stranger, not her boss... not the man who—

"What are you reading?" The question bursts from me, raw and unfiltered, just as the plane starts its ascent into the open skies.

Shiloh tilts the book toward me, a corner of her mouth twitching as if she's fighting a smile—or annoyance; with her, it's hard to tell sometimes. "Villette," she says, her voice neutral, but her eyes don't leave the page.

"Villette," I echo, rolling the name on my tongue, trying to recall anything about it. I come up empty. "What's it about?"

"Unrequited love," she replies curtly, and something about those words hits too close to home.

I scowl, tightening my grip on my knees, feeling the fabric of my slacks strain under my fingers.

"Sounds uplifting," I manage, sarcasm tainting my tone.

"Very much so," Shiloh answers without missing a beat, though she doesn't look up.

I should leave her be. Should let her read in peace, should stop imagining scenarios where the tension between us breaks, where we—

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