Page 93 of Worth Every Moment
I sit staring into space.
“What?” Seb whispers. Damn him, sensing that I’m out of sorts. He never misses a change like that. Matt and Aries are sitting across the aisle now, although they’re not concentrating on us at all, and Jack still hasn’t reappeared. Maybe he’s still sorting out orange Smarties.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’ve gone all frosty.”
I heave a breath, wanting to tell him. To explain. But there are too many people around, and this revelation has thrown me. I don’t know how to handle it; in fact, I feel like I can’t. Panic is coiling through me like a serpent, cutting off my air supply. I feel dizzy. I get up from my seat so fast that Matt glances over his paper, eyebrows raised. I ignore him and pace back throughthe jet towards where the kids are watching TV. Neither of them acknowledges me, thankfully, because I feel as though I might burst into tears, or perhaps flames of rage, if anyone speaks to me.
“Hey,” Seb calls behind me.
I don’t turn. I keep walking until I reach the bathroom, and then I step inside and try to close the door, but before I can lock it, his hand slams against it and he pushes it open. “What’s going on?”
I shove him back with a sharp, “Get out.”
“Nope. Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” Beyond him, I can see Matt’s teenage son peering down the aisle towards us, all gangly limbs and dark eyes pinned on me. In a split second, I make the decision. I’m not standing out here with an audience. I tug Seb into the bathroom and close the door behind him.
It’s small. Not tiny like a toilet in a commercial jet—it’s expensively kitted out with a sleek interior—but we’re still pinned into a bathroom and he’s far too close for my liking. For this conversation, anyway.
He crosses his arms, his normally smiling face fixed into an uncharacteristic frown. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow, determined not to shy away from this. “You slept with that stewardess, didn’t you?”
He frowns as though he’s cycling through a mental folder of air stewardesses he’s fucked. “Maybe.” My eyes nearly pop out of my head.How does he not know?He tips his head towards the door, back the way we came. “Wait, Abigail? Yes. Maybe six months ago. It was a long flight.”
“A long flight!” I explode. “Seriously? Is that what this is?” I wave between us. “In-flight entertainment?”
“Itwasentertaining.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Nausea cramps my stomach, and I rub a palm over my forehead. If it wasn’t so tiny in here, I’d be pacing.
He catches my hand, teasing it away from my face. “Hey. Really? You’re going to get mad about everyone I’ve ever been with when you’re the one who keeps saying this thing between us is all for show?”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop turning this on me. Don’t make me sound like I’m crazy for having an issue with this.”
“I’m not. I’m just asking. I genuinely don’t get it. I don’t know what we’re doing.”
I thrust my chin at him. “What you’re doing is fucking everything that moves.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, silent for a long moment. “That was before. What do you want me to do? Build a time machine and erase my sexual history?”
I let out an exasperated groan. “Yes, actually. That would be great. Because I can’t do this. I can’t go places with you and there be someone you’ve fucked everywhere we go. Even if this is all fake between us, you should have made sure the stewardess today wasn’t someone you’d—”
“We only crossed the line from a relationship that you repeatedly said was completely-fucking-bullshit-fake into something not-entirely-fake last night.Last night.Excuse me if it slipped my mind to check who was on the staff today.”
I heave a breath, annoyed that he—maybe—has a point. “You are the most infuriating arsehole in the world. It feels like I’m stuck in a tin can 35,000 ft in the sky with your ex. If we weren’t in midair, I’d open the door and walk out. Better yet”—I shove him in the chest but he doesn’t shift an inch—“I’d push you out and watch you fall.”
His gaze roves my face, and we stand there glaring at one another. He curses under his breath. “She’s not my ex. She’s ju—”
“Do not finish that sentence. Whatever you say is going to torment me, so I’d rather you didn’t say anything at all.” I drag a hand down my face and turn away, muttering, “I feel like an idiot.”
He pulls me back to face him. “Well, don’t. This”—he gestures between us—“isn’t the same as that.” He points back to the other room as if we could see right through the locked door to whereAbigailis serving drinks. He rests his hands on my shoulders, and although part of me wants to shrug him off, I don’t, and the heat from his palms seeps through my top. I want to lean into him and let all of this go. To rest against him. But at the same time, I hate that I’ve allowed him to get this close. I hate that I’ve let him touch me, taste me, because now he can hurt me in a way he never could before. I’ve made myself vulnerable to him, and I loathe it. “This is different. We’re different,” he says gently.
I can’t bear the sincerity in his tone. I step back from his hold, allowing my anger and resentment to take centre stage as I bite out, “Different how? Aren’t we all just women to fuck?”
