With the gauntlet now thrown, I forge my plan. First, I will arrange the folders by date, creating a visual timeline. I like structure. Organization.

Mason’s files are anything but organized.

On a separate note pad, I jot down terms with which I’m not familiar. On another piece of paper, I write questions, the bulk of which I hope to answer by reading the files rather than asking Mason for help or waiting for access to Wi-Fi.

I glance up and find Mason engrossed in the latest issue of the Wall Street Journal. He peeks over the top of the newspaper and lifts an eyebrow. Quickly, I look down. It’s been like this for the past hour, a frustrating game of cat and mouse. I’ll feel the weight of his stare on me, but when I try to meet his gaze, he pretends not to be paying attention.

It’s getting harder to pretend to ignore him, though.

I set my working file on the coffee table and stand, stretching my arms up over my head to ease the ball of tension knotted behind my shoulder blades. My blouse untucks and slides up my stomach to reveal my belly button. Mason’s eyes lock on it.

“Are you hungry?” I say, prepared to launch into my role as personal assistant. No time like the present.

His lips twist into a smirk. “Famished.” His eyes seem to be devouring me.

My knees buckle a little, and I’m grateful to be sitting. Rattled, I turn away to mask how the effect of his voice and that one gloriously sexy word.

“Can I get you anything?”

“My chef has prepared a light lunch,” he says. “You’ll find it in the fridge.”

In the three-hour flight so far, I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse of another human. If not for the clouds floating past the windows, it would be easy to forget that we’re even on a plane. It strikes me that I’ve already become too comfortable here, the novelty of a private jet fading under the expectation of my monumental task.

A generous spread of meats, bit-sized sandwiches, and various cheeses layers a platter tucked in the back of a full-size stainless steel fridge. I remove it, along with a bowl of fruit salad, and carry them back to a gleaming table, along with two small plates, napkins, and cutlery.

Mason plucks a grape out of the bowl and pops it into his mouth. I’m strangely mesmerized by the way he chews, watching, breathless, as it slides down his throat. A half-day worth of stubble peppers his neck and chin, giving him a ruggedness that wars with the crisp business persona portrayed in the magazines and newspapers.

I stab at a chunk of orange fruit with my fork and hold it up for inspection. Then draw it close to my nose and take a sniff.

Mason regards me with cool amusement.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “What kind of fruit is this?”

“Passion,” he says.

My mouth goes dry and my nipples stiffen. “Oh.”

After a few moments of silence, Mason dabs his mouth with a crisp white linen napkin. “Did you enjoy it?”

I tilt my head in confusion.

“The passion,” he says.

Not for the first time, I find myself speechless, and my thoughts turn to my sister for distraction. Renee would know how to handle this situation. She’d have a flippant reply, some kind of clever response. Her flirtatious instinct is clearly a characteristic she picked up from Dad, while I’m more like my mother—awkward, shy, reserved. Dad was her first boyfriend, and there’s been only a few men around since their divorce.

I shift in my seat, igniting the stinging sensation in my buttocks, still feeling the lingering effects of Mason’s palm on my ass. “I did. But I suppose I’ll only get to have it this one time.”

Mason’s eyes flash. “Then again, life always takes unexpected twists and turns.”

The dual meaning of our conversation doesn’t go unnoticed, but rather than engage in further verbal innuendo, I choose to quit while I’m ahead. This conversation has already jarred me out of my comfort zone and I’m apt to blow it.

Besides, Mason was so clear that we are to remain professional from now on. Whatever it was that happened between us, the man didn’t want anymore of it.

Not from me, anyway.

I finish eating and return to my notes, focusing on the numbers and statistics that will form distinct patterns and help to predict trends. Renee always says I have a knack for making numbers dance. Fitting, since my heart feels like its trapped in an endless pirouette.

Push aside my conflicting feelings about Mason, and I can dig down to the root of my fluttering nerves. I’m doing this—learning how to be a day trader with one of the world’s most successful hedge funds and the hottest trader on the planet. It’s hard not to get excited.

No, the circumstances aren’t perfect. Mason is intimidating and relentless.

But at least I’m here.

I glance up and study Mason’s chiseled jaw. The way it tenses and relaxes as he scrolls through his phone, flicking his thumb across the small keyboard with lightening precision. Is he completing a transaction right now? As the ocean sprawls out beneath us, has Mason just completed a multi-million-dollar trade?

My chest tightens with excitement.

But then the plane takes a sharp nosedive and my stomach flips. As we begin our descent, it strikes me that I still have absolutely no idea where we’ll land—and for the first time in my life, I’m actually thrilled to not know what’s going to happen next.