Page 141 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I turn slowly.
He’s watching me—not just the dress, not my legs, not the shoes I regret wearing, but also kind of don’t.
He’s watching me.
Me.
And the look on his face? That I’m-going-to-fuck-you stare he sometimes gives me for free? It’s not even the loudest thing happening right now. Because beneath it, layered under the heat, is something quieter. Something worse.
He sees me.
“I knew you’d look fucking good in a dress,” he says, low and honest.
“Thank you.” I resist the urge to smooth the hem. Or fidget. Or throw myself out of the aircraft for being too affected by a man who smells like expensive cologne and makes eye contact like it’s foreplay.
“You look beautiful,” he continues.
Not sexy. Not hot. Not fuckable.
Beautiful.
And I swear to God, that’s what does me in.
Because it’s not a tease. Not flirtation dipped in sarcasm.
It’s sincere.
Quiet. Dangerous.
It slips past every defense I have and lands somewhere right behind my ribs.
Somehow, I manage to keep my voice casual. “Did you practice that on the way here or just go off instinct?”
Lucian steps closer. The aisle is so narrow that I have to tilt my chin to keep eye contact, and wow, that should not be this distracting.
“You think I need to practice?” he murmurs, his mouth tipping into that lopsided grin that makes poor decisions feel like destiny.
I open my mouth, ready with something witty, probably involving snacks or a dig about his ego.
Instead, he brushes a knuckle down my arm.
Just once.
And suddenly, my brain forgets how to be clever.
“Sit wherever you want.” His voice takes an oddly casual. Then he adds, “But fair warning—if it’s not next to me, I’m going to take it personally.”
And just like that, I’m airborne—and we’re not even off the tarmac.
I glance around the plane as if I might actually sit somewhere else. Like there’s even a chance I’d choose the cold solitude of a leather armchair over the magnetic pull of the six-foot-something athlete with a mouth that should come with a warning label.
“Liv, please choose a seat. We’ve got a thirty-minute runway wait and then approximately an hour to the estate.”
“Perfect,” I mutter, lowering myself into the seat beside him like I’m not secretly buzzing with tension. “Just the right amount of time to regret every decision I’ve made since shaving above the knee.”
Lucian chuckles, leaning back in his seat like this is all very casual. “We’ll make it the most productive ninety minutes of your life.”
I narrow my eyes. “Lucian.”
