Page 45 of For Wrath and Redemption
“I’m good.”
My thumb hovers over the dinner selections and I glance at Claire. She’s got her attention on her phone, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s texting her boyfriend.
Rich, cheating prick.
“You sure?” I bump her leg with my knee. “We were there for hours. You’ve got to be hungry.”
She shrugs but still doesn’t look at me. “I ate the cookies.”
My jaw drops. “There were cookies? Why didn’t you get me some?”
“It’s my job to manage your PR, not feed you,” she says dryly, and then she changes the subject. “You did great today, by the way. I think it went really well. And if all goes as planned, word of your visit should start trickling online within the next few hours. It will probably be global news before we leave for Lisbon tomorrow.”
“You writing up a statement?”
She shakes her head. “No. We won’t be making a statement.”
“Why not?”
“Subtlety is key to making this seem organic.”
I turn my head on the seatback so I can watch her fully. She’s swiping and typing frantically, working nonstop and chewing on her lip anytime she’s not talking to me. She’s got these cute little lines between her eyebrows as she focuses, and a flash of her smile from earlier pops into my mind. Soft and sweet. Small, but so much more than I could handle.
Without overthinking, I reach into my pocket, pull out the wooden figurine I’d painted, and hold it out for her.
“Here, Trouble. I made you this.”
She stops typing and looks down at the chess piece in my hand. Her forehead scrunches, and she lifts questioning eyes to mine. Instead of giving her an explanation, I arch a brow and wiggle the piece, drawing her attention back to it. Then slowly, she puts her phone in her lap and takes it.
I watch closely as she studies it, twirling it around between herdelicate fingers, a myriad of emotions passing over her face. Confusion. Surprise.
As soon as I saw the small wooden queen, I thought of her. I grabbed it and painted it blue, like her eyes. It’s strategy. It’s a stealthy move.
I remember the way she reacted when I complimented her social media idea the other night. I saw the dejected look on her face when she’d finished that phone call with her cheating boyfriend.
Claire Davis is starved for praise, for attention, and that is something I can use.
She’s too talented and smart, too beautiful, to be this insecure, but it is what it is. Insecurities aren’t logical, and I have to calm the strong desire to pick her apart right here and now. To discoverwhyshe’s like this. I want to crack her skull open and sift through her memories. I want to find every trauma. Every weakness. I want to know everything. What or who broke her confidence? A parent? A boyfriend? Something else?
Despite the protective surge I feel in my stomach—the yearning to find the people who hurt her and punish them for it—I can’t deny that this discovery works in my favor. Women like Claire Davis just want to be seen. To be thought of.
This is strategy. This is chess, and I need to play the whole board.
When she sinks her teeth into her pillowy bottom lip—a move that goes straight to my dick—I let myself mentally draw another tally in the Jonah column. When she blushes again, my throat tightens, and I look away.
“Thank you,” she whispers, putting the queen into her bag. “That was really...nice.”
I nod, then pull out my phone to scroll on it as I speak to her. I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself to look at her again. Not right now. I can’t risk it.
“Yeah, well, I just wanted you to know I’m not going to fight you anymore. I doubted you and was an asshole, but you’re proving me wrong. You’re smart, and you’re good at this, and I appreciate you. So...” I shrug. “Claire Davis, I’m glad you’re my queen.”
I hear her laugh, and I imagine that smile again. The happy one. Therealone. And for the first time in years, I feel sleazy. I turn my body away from her and close my eyes.
“Wake me when we get to the hotel,” I say abruptly.
I don’t want to talk to her anymore.
“Okay.”
