Page 100 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
My lips parted. “You invented our invention?”
“Oh, no. A company called Airiem Floats invented it.”
Swallowing back a small smile, I tilted my head. “And who told them it was a good idea to waste all that money on such a niche, unprofitable thing?”
He cleared his throat, failing to suppress his amusement. “Come on. I had to sign my life away to get last-minute clearance to do this, and there are time restrictions. The pilot won’t be able to take us up if we make him wait much longer.”
“You expect me to believe you were able to get clearance to fly this thing over the city. At night.”
He shrugged. “It has lights.”
“Oh, well, then, problem solved.” I brushed a handful of leaves and petals to the side and started shoving at the Close Door button. But it was no use.
Dominic laughed, grabbing my arm so he could gently lead me toward inevitable death.
Surprisingly enough, the experience didn’t lead to any fatalities.
The ride was as smooth as it was mesmerizing, the lack of wind allowing us to glide through the clear, starry skies with uninterrupted ease. I was so entranced by the glowing beauty of the city skyline that I didn’t notice the buttery cashmere blanket wrapped around my shoulders until a tingle of awareness pulled my attention to my right.
Dominic’s gaze snapped away, and he straightened, but it was a half second too late. I suppressed a smile, bending forward to rest my forearms on the bulky lip of the basket. “This is pretty incredible, I’ll admit.”
He mirrored my lean, and a sparkling warmth skimmed down my back when his arm brushed my sleeve. “Might have even been worth the headache.”
We settled back into a peaceful silence, drinking in the view as the balloon floated over twinkling streetlights, cars, and familiar buildings. By the time we started our smooth descent onto a sizeable, open patch of grass on Dominic’s estate, I was in a state of pure Zen. Not too wired, not too tired. I felt… good. Balanced. Calm.
Even when we’d drawn close enough for the concentrated cluster of glinting specs near Rosie’s garden to take shape, I felt no surprise. Only warm, comfortable goo sloshing lazily through my veins.
He’d flown me over the city in a smart hot-air balloon. The glowing, lavishly decorated open tent was almost quaint in comparison. A perfectly cozy way to end the night.
“Cute,” I mumbled as he helped me down from the basket. There were lanterns and flowers peppered all around a plump, doughy-looking couch within the tent, two freshly poured glasses of my favorite champagne waiting for us on a small coffee table, fruits, chocolates, and a large projection screen.
I didn’t think I had the stamina to make it through a full movie, but he’d gone through all this trouble, and the couch looked so comfortable… “What are we watching?”
He eyed me as I sank into the marshmallow-soft cushions, clearly wondering whether my uncharacteristic agreeableness was some sort of trap or if his plan had actually worked.
“I’m too tired and mellowed out to put up a fight,” I said. “Well done.”
While Dominic was a night owl, my mental sharpness started to dull at around eight in the evening, and I had a strong inkling his choice of timing and transportation wasn’t all that accidental. He wanted me calm and amiable heading into whatever we were about to watch.
He swiped his palms over his jeans before sitting down. “Champagne?”
He wanted me calm, amiable,andbuzzed? This was going to be good.
I plucked the offered flute out of his hand, noting the subtle sheen of sweat gathering above his dark eyebrows despite the prickly chill of the night air. I’d brushed off his silence while we’d been on the balloon, chalking it up to him enjoying the view. But there’d been a small handful of moments when I’d felt him shift beside me like he was going to say something, only to back down.
I tapped the dainty rim of my slim glass against his and took a sip.
“You were right,” he started, straightening a bit as he forced himself to meet my gaze. “What you said about us not communicating. I was never really good at that with you, and I’m not going to sit here and make excuses as to why, but I… sometimes you let things go unsaid for so long, they become…”
“What?”
“It wasn’t a prank. Rachel lied.”
He said it with such flat, unwavering conviction that, for a second, I didn’t have a choice but to believe him. But then my brain caught up, and the skepticism hit full force, snapping me out of the lazy, satisfied stupor I’d been lured into.
A flicker of anger nipped at my chest, igniting an immediate sense of protectiveness over Rachel. “Excuse me?”
“The letter wasn’t fake, Alice. There was no prank or ulterior motive. I was an eighteen-year-old kid who didn’t have the balls to tell you how I felt in person, so I wrote it down instead.”
