4. The Touch of Your Hand - Cash
And a temporary moment of insanity.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, horrified by my unforgivable actions. I’ve known this girl for a couple of hours, but it feels longer. A sheen of inquisition deepens her brown eyes, and I’m positive she’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
She isn’t the only one.
Smoothing her palms over jean-clad thighs, she turns her attention to the window. It’s a move I’m coming to recognize as a nervous one.
Pull it together, man.
But the ensuing silence, which was comfortable before I lost my head and almost kissed her, is stifling. I raise a hand to tug at my tie, except I’m not wearing one. The constriction around my neck and the tightness in my pants is all her doing.
The plane hits more turbulence, and the seat belt light comes back on, followed by a reassuring message from the pilot. My flight companion isn’t reassured. She holds the armrests in an impressive death grip, and I’d give anything to cover her hand again because she seems so damn scared.
But I don’t dare touch her. She brings out a weakness I hadn’t realized I possess—the ability to feel something for a woman who isn’t my wife. Guilt lances deep, staggering in its searing truth. I could justify my lapse of judgment by placing blame on Monica’s infidelity, but I won’t.
My wife’s shitty actions have no bearing on my own. I’m attracted to this beautiful woman with eyes the hue of sable, and hair that falls in soft sheets over her shoulders—gorgeous honey-blond hair I’d love to sink my fingers into again because I’ve never touched strands that silky.
Hell.
Dragging air into my overworked lungs, I force her hair and eyes from my mind. But my dick refuses to settle down, so I place my hands in my lap to hide the erection that won’t quit.
“Tell me about your friend in Seattle,” I say, desperate to break the silence. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about her friend at the moment, but we both need something to shatter the awkwardness that’s fallen over us.
“I met her in—” Another jolt of the plane cuts her off.
Jesus. What is it about this girl that brings out my protective side? My hands are tight balls of frustration in my lap. I’m a few seconds away from brushing my fingers over her skin again. I want to take away her fear. More than anything, I want those arresting eyes of hers back on me.
“You’re probably wishing you weren’t stuck with a total basket case right now,” she says.
To hell with it.
I grab her hand and entwine our fingers. “Not at all, Jules.”
Her attention lowers to our hands for a few seconds before she meets my eyes. “You’re very kind.”
I’m very messed up in the head, but as long as my touch soothes her nerves, I’ll keep touching her.
“I’ve flown a lot. Trust me, this kind of turbulence is normal, especially during a storm.” No way will I tell her that I hate it as much as she does. “You were telling me about your friend,” I remind her.
She lets loose an exhale that disrupts the fine blond strands framing her cheeks. “I met Lesley in college. She majored in business like me, but she’s a free spirit.” A smile I can only describe as fond shapes her lips. “She moved to Seattle to chase her dreams. Joined her brother’s band.”
“Another gutsy move. I can see why the two of you are friends. So what about you?” I say, lifting a brow. “Got any dreams you’re chasing?”
“I’m boring. My last job was in an office.”
Boring, my ass. Everything about her intrigues me. There’s an air of mystery shrouding her, and maybe that’s why I’m so entranced.
“I wouldn’t call you boring,” I say with meaning.
She dips her head but still can’t hide the pink tinting her cheeks. Relaxing her free hand against the armrest a little, she says, “At one point, I wanted to be a writer.”
“Yeah? Did you ever explore that?”
“A little. I wrote a few short stories in high school.”
“So what made you go into business instead?”
“My mom, I guess. She hated how much I had my nose stuck in a book. Pretty much shot that dream down the drain from the get-go. She wanted me to be more like Brit. Model material, basically.” She pauses, shaking her head. “That’s my sister. Sorry, I guess I’m rambling.”
“Ramble away. I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while.”
“Very true,” she says with a laugh. “I guess by the time I hit college, I went for practicality instead. Either way, my mom wasn’t happy with my decision.”
I can relate to the complexities of family all too well. I wouldn’t be married and running a corporation right now if it hadn’t been for the pressure my father put on me for as long as I can remember.
“What do you do for a living?” she asks a few moments later. “Wait, let me guess.” She narrows her eyes, studying me. “I’m picturing you in a business suit, sitting in one of those swanky high-rise buildings. Am I close?”
“You’re not far off. I run a company, and I also have a background in architecture.”
Surprise tugs her brows toward her hairline. “Wow. I’m impressed. I don’t think I’ve ever met an architect before. What kind of buildings do you design?”
“Hotels. But I’m not part of the design team anymore.” Not since taking on the responsibility of CEO, that is. “I work on blueprints.” Clinging to the anonymity between Jules and me, I squeeze her hand in a dick-like move, hoping to distract her from further questioning. “Feeling better now?”
She nods, but her attention veers to our laced hands again. Reluctantly, I untangle our fingers and put some space between us. But it’s too late. Her warm eyes tell me what she doesn’t say.
It isn’t only turbulence that has her strung. Sexual tension buzzes between us, growing with each mile through the air, with every minute we sit close together talking.
Touching.
I think about the possibility that Monica isn’t the only one at fault here. When was the last time we had sex? Definitely before she bought that new comforter I’d spotted in the photo—the one she’d fornicated on top of with some other man.
And the last time we made love? Even longer. There’s a difference, and I can’t remember the last time we connected with genuine intimacy. Work keeps me busy. Expansion has been great for the company, but maybe not so much for my marriage, since we’ve shared a bed but little else for the last few months.
For the first time since laying eyes on that photo, I ask myself a difficult question.
Did I push her into it?
I give myself a mental kick. I’m not the one who put a lock on our sex life. I don’t know why she’s been so cold and distant lately, but it’s time to rip off the bandaid. Our marriage has been in trouble for a while, and I’ve been too busy—too careless—to take serious notice.
Until that damn photo blasted my phone. Sharp pain pierces my chest at the thought. This isn’t what I imagined when I married her.
“Now I think I’m the one who needs to ask if you are okay.” Jules’ voice pulls me from the dark place I’d tumbled into.
Perceptive, indeed.
“I’m fine,” I say, leaving it at that.
She shifts in her seat and faces me, propping herself against the arm of her chair. “What’s your favorite thing about Seattle?”
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling pent-up tension. “I’m not sure I could narrow it down to just one thing.”
“Top three then.”
“It’s lively. People are always on the move, and you can get around downtown without a car.”
“What else?”
“Coffee. Need I say more?”
“I don’t drink coffee. I’m more of a tea person.”
“Jules, this is very distressing news. Seattle is crying right now.”
“Hey, don’t blame the rain on me,” she says with a laugh, and I can’t help but smile. “Okay, tell me one last favorite thing.”
“I’d have to go with nature. When the sun does shine, there’s no better place. The Cascades are less than an hour away.”
An adorable furrow seizes the space between her brows. “I can’t picture you camping and hiking and doing all of that outdoorsy stuff.”
“Don’t judge a man by his clothes.”
She lowers her eyes, and I feel the heat of her gaze at my throat, where I’d left the top two buttons of my collar undone. Then her attention drifts to my slacks.
“It’s hard to imagine you in jeans.”
I’m hard, period. Christ, I hope she doesn’t notice.
“So,” I say, swallowing past the thick lump of desire clogging my throat. “Think you’ll stick around and find some favorites of your own?”
“I hope so,” she says, her voice softening. “I can’t go back home.”
I want to ask why. There is so much about this woman I want to know. What she does for a living. What she does for fun. What kind of music she listens to.
The sounds she makes when she comes.
Jesus.
Clearing my throat, I lean forward and nod toward the window. “Looks like we’re getting close.” A glittering blanket of lights breaks through the dark, and for a long while, Jules gazes through the glass, seemingly relaxed. But when the pilot announces descent into Seattle, she stiffens beside me. Holding her hand seems natural by now, and yet the spark of awareness that shoots through me as I lace our fingers together isn’t. I ignore the buzz zapping along my skin and focus on trying to keep her calm.
“We’ll be on the ground again in no time,” I assure her.
She lets out a nervous huff. “I could’ve used you on my flight to Denver earlier.”
“Was the turbulence bad?”
“Not as bad as tonight.”
Silence settles over us for several minutes as the aircraft decreases in altitude. We bank left, and she squeezes my hand. I surpassed maintaining personal space long ago. As I return the tight grip of her fingers, I lean into her, hyper aware of the warmth radiating from her skin, and watch the lights of the city from over her shoulder. That glittering ground comes closer with each second that goes by. I think she might be holding her breath.
“Jules, breathe.” My words drift across her cheek, and I’m certain she’s shivering. She lets out a shaky exhale as the wheels touch the runway with a jolt, gripping my hand to the point of pain. As soon as we’re safely on the ground, and the plane begins to taxi, she releases my hand before giving me a sheepish smile.
“Sorry if I crushed your fingers.”
“I’m not complaining.”
We lock eyes for several heated moments, in which time seems to freeze. It isn’t until the seat belt light dings off that the spell is broken. As passengers start to move, I unbuckle and grab my computer bag, then stand to fetch my carry-on. Adrenaline is coursing through me, and I’m not sure if it’s from the woman I just spent the last three hours with, or from the impending argument I’m expecting with Monica.
“Do you have luggage up here?” I ask Jules as I pull my bag from the overhead bin.
Gripping a large purse between her dainty hands, she shakes her head. “I checked my suitcase.”
She seems so small and scared sitting in that seat. I wasn’t lying when I called her gutsy, and I’m finding her more alluring for it. Because it takes guts to be brave and vulnerable at the same time, and she does both with such openness that it makes my heart clench. Stepping back in the aisle to give her room, I gesture for her to go first.
“Thank you,” she murmurs with an endearing shyness as she slides over and stands.
Hell, she’s tiny. Her soft hair spills down her back, almost reaching her ass.
Her ass…
Don’t even go there.
We shuffle along until we reach the exit, and I follow her across the jet bridge, the wheels of my carry-on drowning out the mad pace of my heartbeat. She’s done something to me.
Made me lose my head.
As her hips sway in an understated way—a way that screams she has no clue how sexy she is, or how her petite frame is a damn weapon—I wonder how I’m going to part from this girl who draws me in and tumbles me in the eye of her storm.
All too soon, we step into the airport. As we come to a stop near baggage claim, she darts a shy glance my way. “Do you have luggage you need to get?”
“No. I travel light whenever I can.”
Her eyes seem to dim, and I’m positive the polite curve of her lips is laced with sadness. “Well…I need to grab my luggage.” A beat passes, heavy with things left unspoken. “Thanks for keeping me from freaking out up there.”
“You’re welcome.”
She takes a tiny step backward, toward the baggage claim area. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” I force out, wanting to say more.
Like don’t go yet.
For a few stolen seconds, I imagine us getting coffee, or in her case tea, and talking the night away in a quiet corner of one of the airport cafes. And I pretend I’m not married, and Jules…
She didn’t just break the heart of someone who probably doesn’t deserve her.
I can’t see her cheating, but I’m pretty sure she did, and she’s torn to pieces over it. Regret is thick and rancid, and it’s wafting off her in fumes. It fucking reeks because it means she still wants him. She’s so shattered by what went down that she flew halfway across the country to escape it.
If Monica displays a tenth of that kind of regret, maybe I can find it in my heart to forgive her. That’s a big maybe. Regardless, I have no business feeling this way about someone I just met.
She shuffles her feet. “I should go.”
“Yeah.”
But neither of us move.
I tell myself to turn and head for the exit. To put an end to this crazy night. Instead, my feet eat up the few feet between us until we’re standing close enough to touch. “You asked me if I believe in fate.”
“Do you?” She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Until tonight, I didn’t.”
“But you do now?”
“I think so.” Curling my fingers around the nape of her neck, I lean down and brush my lips across her cheek. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Jules.” I pull away, and her eyes are huge and bright with an unmistakable sheen. Before those orbs pull me under, I turn on my heel and walk away without looking back.