Page 84 of Blindsided
I shrug, trying for casualness, though we both know better. “Waiting for the right moment, I guess.”
“And when will that be?”
“When I’m ready to see her as a real person, not just an idea.” I’m surprised by my own honesty, but that’s what Kori does to me—pulls truth from places I didn’t know existed.
She reaches over, her hand settling on my forearm. “She’s real, Kane. And in a few days, you’ll be face-to-face with her.”
The thought sends a jolt of anxiety through me. “What if she hates all of us?”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” Kori says.
Her use of “we” doesn’t escape my notice. I cover her hand with mine and give it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Thank you for asking.” Her smile turns playful. “Though I’m still not convinced this isn’t all an elaborate scheme to get me to meet the rest of your family.”
I laugh, grateful for the lightening of mood. “Yes, because everyone dreams of introducing a girl totheir long-lost sister and estranged biological father on a ranch in Alberta.”
“When you put it that way, it does sound like the plot of a bad rom-com.”
“Starring who, though? That’s the real question.”
She tilts her head, considering. “Ryan Reynolds for you, obviously.”
“Obviously, but he would need to wear a wig,” I agreed solemnly. “And you?”
“Sandra Bullock in her Miss Congeniality era.”
“I can see it,” I say, studying her face with exaggerated intensity. “Though your hair’s better.”
She touches her choppy locks self-consciously. “This disaster? I cut it myself with kitchen scissors after finding out about Mark and Lana.”
“I like it,” I tell her honestly. “It suits you.”
The conversation flows easily from there, through dinner (definitely not airline food—the MacGallans don’t do plastic trays) and into the night as the others gradually drift off to sleep around us. The cabin lights dim, leaving us in a cocoon of soft shadows.
“You should get some rest,” Kori says, stifling a yawn.
“Not tired,” I lie, though exhaustion tugs at my limbs.
She gives me a knowing look. “Liar. You’ve barelyslept in days.”
“I slept fine with you,” I point out, immediately regretting how it sounds. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” she says, saving me from myself. She hesitates, then lifts the armrest between us. “Come here.”
I blink, not sure I understand until she pats her chest. “Seriously?”
“You need sleep. I make a decent pillow. Simple solution.”
It’s not simple—nothing between us is—but I’m too tired to argue. I shift in my seat, resting my head on her breasts. She’s warm and cushiony, smelling faintly of vanilla and something uniquely her. My eyes drift closed almost immediately.
“Better?” she murmurs, her breath stirring my hair.
“Mmm,” is all I can manage.
I feel her chuckle more than hear it. “Goodnight, Kane.”
I intend to reply, but sleep claims me before I can form the words.
