Page 3 of Feast

“White wine spritzer drinkers don’t get whiskey,” he informed her, holding it up when she tried to grab it. “I don’t want to get puked on.”

“I’m not going to puke up one glass of Jack Daniels,” she said and settled back in her seat with an affronted sniff.

“I’m not taking any chances,” he replied and knocked back the rest of his glass to make sure.

“Rude. I’d rather have the spritzer, anyway.” She leaned back out into the aisle. “Where is that flight attendant?”

Spence just leaned back and closed his eyes again. “The door is closed. She won’t give you one until we’re in the air.”

“She offered you another,” 3B pointed out.

“Yeah, but she wants to fuck me,” he said bluntly with the vague hope that if he were rude enough she’d leave him alone for the duration of the flight.

“Why?” came the prompt reply.

He opened one eye. “Touché.”

Her grin flashed, smugly delighted. “Thanks.”

He closed his eye. “Now shut up so I can sleep.”

She snorted. “Nighty-night, sleeping beauty.”

Spence just grunted and turned toward the window so she couldn’t see his grin.

He hadn’t expectedto actually sleep, so when he woke with a jerk it took him a moment to orient himself. Then he heard the ding of the seatbelt sign being turned off and the pilot’s voice over the loudspeaker welcoming them to Las Vegas, and he remembered.

“We’re here already?” he muttered and scrubbed his hands over his face to wake up.

“Yep,” a cheerful voice replied beside him, and he glanced at 3B. “You slept the whole flight.”

He stared at her, struggling to get his fuzzy brain into gear. “What happened to you?”

She blinked at him as the passengers around them spilled into the aisle, jockeying for position. “What are you talking about?”

“You look…” He trailed off, searching for a less offensive word, but he was still half asleep and his brain wouldn’t cooperate. “Normal.”

She snickered and lifted a hand to her hair. “I dug out my hairbrush. Does it look all right?”

She’d transformed the ferret’s nest into actual hair and pinned it up with some kind of clip, glossy curls spilling out of it . “It looks like you stole someone else’s hair,” he said, the highest compliment he could come up with.

“Gee, I’m all aflutter,” she drawled, and he figured when he was more awake he’d appreciate the sarcasm.

“What’d you do to your face?”

“Makeup wipes,” she said, and rolled her un-raccooned eyes. “Are you always this charming?”

“Yes.” He’d been right. Without the sweaty flush, her skin was white, with just a hint of blush underneath.

“Boy, that flight attendant really dodged a bullet,” she said and stood to retrieve her suitcase from the overhead.

He stayed in his seat, yawning, and watched her t-shirt ride up to expose a sliver of silky white midriff. “Need a hand?”

“How chivalrous of you to offer,” she said, her voice straining as she yanked the bag free. She dropped it to the floor with a grunt and leaning down on it, peered at him through the curls that had flopped forward. “A true gentleman.”

He stretched, feeling loose and rested and almost cheerful, his mood aided considerably by the way her t-shirt was gaping. He had a solid view of pink lace and soft white skin, and he decided that since it was there and so was he, he might as well appreciate it. “Anything I can do.”

She rolled her eyes and straightened. “Stop looking at my tits, you pervert,” she said, but there was humor rather than heat in the words.

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