Page 5 of The Situation
Been there, done that, and have two divorces to prove it.
I open my book and find where I left off this morning, pointedly ignoring my seatmate. But no matter how many times I re-read the first line of the chapter, I can’t forget Tate is beside me. I can’t let the story overtake him. Every tap of his foot and wiggle of his fingers stokes a fire in my belly—one I’m desperate to ignore.
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 Iwillcave. 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.”
