Page 70 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
"Looking like everything I’ve ever wanted. And suddenly, waiting one more minute felt impossible."
Her expression softens, but before it gets too serious, I add, "Of course, you ruined my romantic scheme. So now, you’re going to suffer."
She gasps in mock outrage. "Suffer?"
"Endure," I amend, trying not to laugh. "So many pre-wedding celebrations. Engagement parties. Dinners. Maybe even a ball. Champagne toasts every weekend until we say 'I do.' It’ll be grueling."
"Sounds awful," she says, leaning closer. "Will there be cake?"
"So much cake," I say solemnly. "You’ll hate it."
She kisses my cheek, her laughter warm against my skin. "Fine. I’ll suffer. But only because I love you."
“South of France?” she says, grinning.
“Nope.”
“Morocco? No wait, Monaco! Somewhere with dramatic balconies and terrible espresso. Don’t tell me you’re whisking me away to the Alps.”
I shake my head, amused. “You’re adorable when you’re desperate.”
She gasps. “That was cruel.”
“I prefer strategic,” I laugh.
Her elbow nudges my side. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you said yes.”
That earns me a look, a glowing, gorgeous, entirely unbothered look that curls heat low in my stomach.
She laughs again, tips her head back against the seat, then leans into me like it’s where she’s meant to be. Her fingers trail slowly along the inside of my wrist, and for a moment, all I can think about is how good she feels against me. She rests her head on my shoulder. At one point, she falls asleep, and I let her. Her breath is warm through my shirt. I hold her hand the entire time.
We pull up to the private hangar in the still light of early afternoon, the sun hanging high and lazy above the runway, casting long reflections across the sleek glass of the terminal windows.
The sky is pale blue and cloudless, the tarmac shimmering beneath the strong midday sun. Ivy stirs and blinks awake as the car stops.
“Where are we?” she asks, looking out the window. Then she sees the plane, sleek, white, and waiting, and turns back to me with a disbelieving laugh. “Jack.”
I shrug. “Still warm.”
The driver opens her door and hands me two small bags from the trunk. I hold one out.
She eyes it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Yours. Graham packed a few of your things, said I’d earned it. Barely.”
Her brows lift.
“And this.” I hand her the envelope. “Graham gave it to me. Said if I was going to do something reckless, I better make damn sure you’d want to say yes.”
She opens it. Stares. “You stole my passport.”
“Borrowed. For love.”
She laughs, bright and easy. “You’re completely insane.”
“Romantic,” I correct.
