Page 66 of Arrogant Puck

Slater: They already know.

Sage: What?

Slater: I’m not going to hide it.

Sage: It’s unprofessional. I could lose my job.

I glare at her, and when her eyes meet mine, she blushes that perfect shade of pink that makes me want to do inappropriate things in public places.

Sage: Why are you looking at me like that?

Slater: Like what?

Sage: Like you’re about to rip my head off.

Slater: I would never.

She turns to glare at me directly this time, and I have to fight back a smile. She’s beautiful when she’s annoyed—her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparking with defiance.

“They’re texting each other,” Henderson announces loudly, like he’s discovered some great mystery.

Without taking my eyes off Sage, I kick his shin hard enough to make him yelp.

Sage: You didn’t have to kick him.

Slater: I have to protect what’s mine since you don’t want anyone to know.

Sage: My seat is 4C.

I check my boarding pass.

Slater: Change it. I’m at 13A.

Sage: I might be sitting with the coaches.

Slater: I’ll make Henderson switch with you.

Sage: Please don’t.

We make eye contact again, and this time I let myself really look at her. Her lips are full and naturally pink, the kind that don’t need lipstick to look perfect. I want to know what they taste like, what sounds she’d make if I bit the bottom one gently.

Her eyes are the color of warm honey, with flecks of gold that catch the airport lighting. High cheekbones that give her face an elegant structure, and skin so smooth. There’s a small freckle just above her left eyebrow that I never noticed before, and I want to trace it with my fingertip.

She’s not just beautiful—she’s stunning in a way that makes my chest tight. The kind of beautiful that stops traffic and starts wars. And she’s sitting next to me, wearing my t-shirt under her travel jacket, smelling like my soap from the shower she took this morning.

Mine.

The thought hits me with startling clarity. She’s mine, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Even if she’s fighting it with every professional instinct she has.

The boarding announcement interrupts my staring, and I force myself to look away before I do something stupid like kiss her in front of the entire team.

“First class and priority boarding,” the gate agent calls out.

I stand and grab my backpack, making sure to stay close to her as we queue up. She’s in front of me in line, and I can smell her shampoo every time she moves. It’s torture and heaven all at once.

When we reach the plane, she finds her seat in 4C without any drama. I continue down the aisle to 13A, settling in and immediately reclining my seat. The flight is less than two hoursto Chicago, which means I can sleep off the restless night and hopefully wake up with a clearer head.

But as the plane takes off, all I can think about is the woman sitting ten rows ahead of me, and how I’m going to convince her to stop fighting what’s inevitable.

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