? ? ?
I’m not a small man, so when I see that Faye put me in business class, I send her a little prayer of thanks. Johanna sits right next to me, and even though we just declared a truce, I kind of wish she was seated somewhere else, because she’s a distraction I’m trying to avoid, and it’s hard when she’s so damn close. I guess I better get used to it though. Still, if we were in economy I’d be pressed up against her, and now we have space between us. I catch her glancing over at me but pretend that I don’t notice it. Maybe I should pretend I’m asleep or something. Fuck it, I’ll just watch a movie. I’m about to put on my headphones when she speaks.
“Ranger?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning my head to the right and looking into her eyes. Her beauty hits me. Fuck, she’s stunning.
She wrings her hands together, then winces. “I’m not a very good flier.”
I sit up straighter. “What do you mean you’re not a good flier? Do you get sick?”
“Sometimes,” she admits, the color leaving her face as the plane starts to move. “I usually just feel nauseous and drowsy. Light-headed.”
I undo my seat belt, get up, and crouch in front of her seat. I know I’m not meant to, and I’m about to get told off, but I can’t exactly leave her to suffer. Fuck the rules. “You’re only mentioning this now? Isn’t there some motion-sickness medicine or something you can take?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” she says, forcing a smile. “I’m only telling you in case I pass out.”
My eyes widen. “Pass out? Fuckin’ fuck, Johanna! Should I call a flight attendant? I’m sure they’ll have something that will help you.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She waves me off, even though I can see she’s not feeling well. She’s clearly stubborn.
“Excuse me, sir, but you must be seated and have your seat belt on for takeoff,” a flight attendant tells me. I sit back down but ask her if she has anything that can help Johanna, who, from the side, denies needing any kind of assistance. The attendant fusses over Johanna for a little while, gives her some water and a bag, in case she needs to be sick. Johanna convinces her she’s fine, so the attendant leaves us alone.
“You’re not fine,” I growl, narrowing my gaze on her. As the flight ascends, I can see a sheen of sweat appear on her brow. I wait until the stupid seat belt light is off, then return to her side. She doesn’t even react to my nearness, just keeps her eyes closed and her head back against the seat. Getting tired of her shit, I undo her seat belt, lift her up in my arms, and lift her into my lap.
“Ranger? What are you doing?” she asks in a soft voice. She must have a killer headache, because she seems so disoriented, nothing like the feisty cop I met at the café. She doesn’t even try to move from my hold, something I’m sure she’d have done if she were feeling normal. I sit back down, with her cradled in my lap, rubbing her back gently. She presses her cold, clammy face against my black T-shirt, so I start to give her a gentle head massage, hoping it helps with the tension. It must work, because she relaxes against me, her body going limp. Soon after, she falls asleep on me, her soft snores making me grin. Just who is this woman in my arms? Not just her job—who is she, other than a cop? If all of that was peeled back, to the very essence of her, that’s what I crave to know. I, too, close my eyes and try to sleep. I don’t think we’ll get much rest after this flight, so I should take advantage of it.
I pretend I don’t enjoy the feeling of having her in my arms.
I pretend I don’t like it, and I sure as hell ignore the way it makes me feel.
I’m good at that, turning off my emotions. I can go cold as ice, make myself feel nothing.
It’s the best way to be.
SIX
SHE sleeps like a baby the whole flight, until we get told by the flight attendant that she has to return to her seat for landing. She doesn’t look at me after she wakes, probably shy, or embarrassed, I don’t know which. Maybe she’s ashamed to have been so close to a biker without a gun aimed at him.
Or maybe it’s me with the issue.
I keep an eye on her as the flight lands. I see her dig her nails into her palm, and I want to help, but I don’t think she’d appreciate the offer right now. If she wants my help, I wish she’d ask, but I know she won’t. Reality has hit, which means she must be feeling much better than before, when she was so out of it that she didn’t care whose arms she was in. Feeling helpless, I watch as she tries to keep herself calm. When we land, I see the relief play out on her face, and I feel it too. Since neither of us has any carry-on bags, we exit the plane quickly. We walk side by side in silence, and it’s only when we’re standing at baggage claim that she speaks.
“Thank you, for what you did back there,” she says, exhaling roughly. “You didn’t have to. And to be honest, no one has taken care of me like that before, so yeah . . . thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say. She moves to grab one of the bags, so I lean forward and carry it before she can.
“Thanks.”
I simply nod my head, grab my bag when it comes around, and then walk through the exit with her to hail a cab. I open the cab door for her, then put our suitcases in the trunk, wondering when exactly I became gentleman of the year. She gets in the back, while I get in the passenger seat to give me a little space to clear my head. The driver is chatty as fuck, which is both annoying and welcome at the same time.
“Business or pleasure?” he asks after I tell him the name of the hotel we’ll be staying at.
“Definitely business,” Jo says from the back, sounding tired but still managing to muster a dry tone.
Jo? Since when is Johanna, Detective Chase, just Jo? Great, now I’ve given her a fuckin’ nickname.
The cabdriver and I discuss everything from weather to politics before we reach the hotel. When we get there, I pull out my wallet just as Jo shoves a fifty-dollar bill in the middle of the driver and me, her outstretched hand waiting for someone to take it. With a shake of my head, I tell the driver to ignore her, which he does with an amused smirk.
“Seriously?” she says, sounding annoyed. “Ranger, take it, don’t be ridiculous.”
I pay the driver and tip him, ignoring her money, and then get out to unload our suitcases. Taking one in each hand, I walk toward reception, but then stop and wait for her, realizing that I’m being a little rude.
“I can carry my own suitcase,” she grumbles, trying to take it from my hand.
I sigh, glancing down at her face. “It will go easier and quicker if you just let me do what I have to do. Why don’t you go and check us in?”
“Did you print out the reservation?” she asks, going through her handbag as if looking for it.
“No,” I say, brow furrowing. “I assumed that you would.”