Page 19 of Flawed

She nods. "I need a new one. I'm not home often, so I haven't spent the money."

Unable to resist, I sit beside her, questioning, "Why aren't you home a lot?"

"My job."

"What do you do?"

Nervousness fills her expression. "I'm a flight attendant."

I rub my thumb over the back of her hand. "That's a good job. What airline?"

A moment passes, and she states, "I'm not with an airline. I work on a private jet."

The hairs on my neck rise. I know what happens with the flight attendants on the Abruzzo private jets. I bark out, "Has anyone hurt you?"

Confusion fills her expression. She sits up, exclaiming, "No! Of course not. Why would you say that?"

I study her. She genuinely seems appalled, which makes me relax a tad. Still, I wouldn't put it past some rich, seedy guy taking advantage of her. So I vow, "If anyone ever tries anything, I'll kill them."

Shock fills her features. Her head jerks back slightly.

I add, "There are a lot of men who would do horrible things to you."

"My employer wouldn't stand for it," she insists.

"Who's your employer?"

She smirks. "A businessman."

Irritated, I seethe, "A businessman? You'll have to give me a bit more than that."

"Gee, do I?" She bats her eyelashes.

"Meaning?" I growl.

"Want to tell me what you do, Mr. Businessman?" she fires back.

"Not fair. Just tell me," I order.

She crosses her arms and fires daggers at me with her gaze. "It's none of your business who I work for, but when you can be honest with me, I'll be honest with you."

Shit!

She mutters, "Such a hypocrite."

And we're back to I'm an asshole.

I run my hand through my hair, tugging at the strands. I ask, "Why do I get the feeling I just insulted you?"

"You didn't," she lies.

"Pretty sure I did," I reply.

She sighs and glances at the ceiling then back at me. Softening her voice, she suggests, "Can we change the subject?"

I don't like her secrecy about who she works for, but I also don't want to fight with her anymore. Plus, I don't want her fixated on what I do for a living. I agree, "Done."

Silence fills the room. I debate about whether I want to get back to where we were going before I asked her what she does for a living or if I should head to the living room. Her glare tells me the couch is calling my name.

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