Page 35 of Stirring Up Love
“You are so immature.”
He grinned. “Says the woman who ran off to the bathroom when she lost the game.”
“Did not.” She totally had. “Besides, you already admitted you lost by coming over to talk to me.”
“I lost theavoidancegame, yes. But we looked at each other at the same time, so technically the antistaring contest was a draw.” She hated that he was right as much as she loved that he’d given thought to the rules. “Anyway, if you don’t want your phone, I can go put it back on your chair.”
She snatched it out of his hand. Put it in her purse. Zipped it. He laughed, loud and full bodied, and several people turned their heads. The sound should’ve rankled her, but instead she had to force a scowl to keep from joining in. Finn Rimes was the flip side to her coin. She hated that.
Less comfortable in Finn’s presence than when her internal organs were being crushed by elastic, Simone made a beeline for her miraculously empty seat. But as she got closer, she realized it wasn’t a miracle at all—Finn’s duffel bag was slung across the armrest, saving two seats. He picked it up and sat down, crossing his ankles.
She followed suit, folding herself into the uncomfortable seat. “If you noticed me all along, why didn’t you come over sooner?”
He shrugged. “After the show, you made it pretty clear you weren’t interested in chatting.”
Funny, a man who listened. She’d thought they were myth. “I needed some space.”
“Do you still need space?”
She needed him out of this concourse, out of the airport. Out of her life. But he’d been on the floor all night and half the day. Denying him a seat seemed egregiously cruel.
“If you like, we can go back to pretending to be strangers.” Could they, though? Her body thrummed with awareness of him.
Finn stretched one leg out toward the center of the aisle, like he was at home on a sofa, not crammed onto a stiff pleather seat. Despite his laid-back posture, he kept himself to his side of the armrest, angled away from her. And yet his presence made the hairs on the back of her neck tingle in anticipation.
She pulled theForbesmagazine from her purse and flipped it open. Eyes on the page, she felt Finn tip toward her, still on the other side of the armrest. He ran a splayed hand down his thigh, smoothing the worn fabric under his fingers. The jeans looked soft with wear, and she wondered how they would feel under her fingers. Or how they’d look unbuttoned and hanging off his lean hips ...
She snapped upright and crossed her legs. Undid the top button of her trench coat. Kept a firm grip on the magazine so she wouldn’t slip up and fan herself.
“Hot?”
“Bothered,” she said, and he laughed. Flexed his hand and palmed the back of his neck. Jeez, the man was a walking seduction. She should’ve taken him up on his offer for space. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
He swept a hand around the crowded terminal, and she realized her slipup. “I think we all do. And yet ...”
“And yet, purgatory.” At best.
“I think this is the part where a twisted demon throws us together, yet again, for their own torturous amusement,” he said.
Against her will, Simone’s lips twitched. “My theology’s rusty, but I don’t think there are demons in purgatory.”
“An angel, then?”
“Throwingustogether?” She let sarcasm creep into her voice to stomp out the spark of hope in his eyes like a dangerous ember. “Hardly.”
Finn sat on the edge of his seat, then slid back and put his elbows on his knees, fidgety, the opposite of the calm he’d displayed up untilnow. “I should apologize.” Head down, he blew out a breath. “I came on pretty strong onThe Executives. Said some things I didn’t mean.” He looked over his shoulder again, and this time his eyes collided with hers. His gaze was bare and honest. “Then again, so did you.”
“I meant every word.” But had she? Thinking back on it, she couldn’t remember half of what she’d said. It had all come down to self-preservation. She’d dragged him under to save herself. Shame vied for anger in her chest. “Besides, I’m not the one who’s been plotting to steal your company since day one.” Even though he owed her nothing, was no one to her, the deceit still hurt in a way she hadn’t known was possible. Not anymore.
“I told you I had nothing to do with that,” he said. “I was as blindsided as you.” But his voice cracked. Like a liar. Like a cheat.
“Say that’s true ...” It wasn’t. “You still responded by throwing me under the bus.”
“What was I supposed to do, roll over and take it?” He straightened up and tucked his long legs under the seat, bouncing his knee, like talking to her left him restless. “Considering how hard you fought to keep me out of your precious farmers’ market, I figured you’d respect someone with a fighting spirit.”
He had a point. “Just because I respect your ...” Underhanded tactics? Duplicity? She settled on a complimentary word (he had apologized, after all): “... ingenuity on an intellectual level doesn’t mean I don’t resent it on a personal one.”
He stayed silent for so long that she went back to perusing the magazine. She flipped to a feature article on Keith Donovan. The ex-NFL star smiled up at her from the glossy page, as if he were trying to convince her to take the deal.
