: Chapter 12

I glance at the clock for the twentieth time in an hour and grumble under my breath.

Where the fuck is she?

Is she not coming home?

She hasn’t packed yet, we leave tomorrow for London, she’s not answering her phone, and it’s past eleven at night.

I pace the living room, trying to keep it together, but Jesus, it’s hard to not flip your shit when your wife is so…so erratic.

Lights flash past the window, and I quickly walk up to the curtains and pull them back slightly to see Sloane step out of a car and thank the driver.

I move toward the front door and open it just as she reaches the top step, scaring her.

“Jesus, what are you doing?” she asks as she makes her way past me and into the house, as if nothing is wrong.

“Waiting for you,” I say. “Where the hell have you been?”

“With Stacey,” she says and keeps walking up the stairs, no more explanation to that.

I quickly lock up the house and follow her up the stairs. When I reach the bedroom, she moves past the laundry I folded for her and to the bathroom, where she grabs a pair of pajamas from the dresser, not opting for one of my shirts. And that is just wrong. It’s become my new normal to see her in my shirts, so what is going on?

“Uh, care to explain?”

“Explain what?” she asks.

“Where you were,” I say.

“I said I was with Stacey. We were at the house, enjoying ourselves.” Then she moves into the toilet room and shuts the door. When she comes out, she’s dressed and puts her dirty clothes in the hamper before walking over to the sink, where she starts washing her face.

“Sloane,” I say, irritated.

“What?” she replies as she suds up her face with facial cleanser.

“Are you going to ignore the fact that I was trying to get in touch with you and you weren’t answering?”

She rinses her face and then towel dries it before picking up her lotion. “Why were you trying to get in touch with me?” she asks with such a blasé attitude that it grates on my nerves.

“Because I wanted to know where the fuck my wife was.”

“You knew I was with Stacey.”

“Were you though?” I ask, feeling jealousy pulse through me as my imagination runs wild with other possibilities.

“Yes,” she says in an annoyed tone. “And before you suggest I was with anyone but you, you better check yourself. Because I might be horny, but I gave you my word. You’re my husband, plain and simple. I won’t be searching for anything else.”

I’m annoyed that her reassurance puts me slightly at ease because I shouldn’t care that much, even though I do.

“Why did you come home late?” I ask, not able to drop this.

She lotions her face and answers, “Because I don’t need to answer to you. You made it clear that nothing in our arrangement extends past what is required of me, so that’s what I’m going to stick to: what is required of me in this marriage. And frankly, Hudson, I’m done trying. I spent a week attempting to get to know you, to lean on you through this situation, and you’ve given me nothing. So I’ll do what you want but give the bare minimum.” She lines her toothbrush with toothpaste and starts brushing.

The bare minimum.

I don’t like that.

And I have no right to complain about it because she’s right—she’s done a lot in the last week, and I’ve kept her at arm’s length. I’ve shut her down, made sure to not get tempted, to not fall into the trap of her charm, because fuck is she charming.

This distance? The lack of joy in her expression?

The defeat in her shoulders?

Hate it.

But I can’t do anything about it. I just need to accept it and move on because, like I said from the very beginning, I won’t go there with her.

“Sloane, we leave for London tomorrow.” She nods. “And it would have been nice to have discussed our plan for when we’re there.”

She spits her toothpaste out and says, “Type up a memo. I’ll read it on the plane.”

Then she walks out to the bedroom.

Well, fuck, she wasn’t kidding about bare minimum.

A memo?

No. I’m not about to communicate with my wife through a memo.

I finish getting ready for bed, mulling over her new attitude, wondering if something else happened tonight that really made her change. I mean, it had to. The question is, how am I going to handle this?

I turn off the bathroom light and move into the bedroom, where she’s lying on her side of the bed, turned away from me. She’s scrolling on her phone, looking at Instagram, when I slip in behind her.

There is one thing I did promise myself when I put a ring on her finger: I would treat her like a queen, like a wife, like how she deserves, so I try to soften my approach.

“I’d prefer to talk to you about London, not write it up in a memo.”

She sets her phone down and sits up in bed. The matching set of white-and-pink-striped pajamas are cute on her, but I got used to her wearing my T-shirts to bed.

“Fine, what are your expectations?” she asks while she rests her hands in her lap.

That mouth, those lips, pursed and ready to fire a comeback at me within a drop of a hat. It’s one of the things I have come to appreciate about her—not that I should be counting up all the reasons I like her, but it is. She’s spunky, doesn’t take shit. And yeah, she might be young, but she’s right: she handles herself well, makes me forget just how young she really is.

None of that matters now, though. She needs to know what to expect when we get to London.

“We’ll have to share a hotel room.”

“Well, since I’m currently sleeping in your bed, I don’t foresee that being an issue. Also, I booked the travel; I know what kind of room we’re staying in. Does this really need to be something we have to discuss?”

The fucking attitude.

“I thought it would be appropriate to let you have a voice in the matter.”

“Oh, so if I told you I didn’t want to share a hotel room with you, you’d get me my own?”

“No,” I answer. “But I could at least plan to sleep on the pull-out couch.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t be a drama queen. I share a bed with you now. I can share a bed with you in London. What else?”

“I’ve secured dancing lessons for us, so that you can be trained in the dances that Sheridan requires for the wedding.”

“Sounds enjoyable,” she replies. “But what do you mean by us? You’re not part of the wedding.”

“I said I would train you.”

“As far as I know, you’re not versed in Regency dancing. How can you possibly train me?”

“You’re going to need a partner,” I shoot back.

“I’ll just use whatever dancer they have available. I’m sure there will be a single man, ready to whisk me off my feet.”

My eyebrows turn down. “I will be your partner.”

“Stop, Hudson. I’m sure you have better things to do than to learn some dances with me.”

“I’ll be your partner,” I repeat. “No discussion.”

“Okay,” she says with a roll of her eyes. Christ. “Anything else?”

I clear my throat, unsure of how to handle this side of her. “There’ll be a lot of meetings and dinners we have to attend. You’ll attend as my wife, not my assistant.”

“Okay.”

“And pack light, because I’ll be taking you to Harrods when we arrive to make sure you have the appropriate wardrobe for the different events we will be attending.”

“Okay.”

I purse my lips to the side, annoyed with her one-word replies. “And I’ve set you up for a class in etiquette before any of the meetings or dinners we have. I want to make sure you’re prepared to eat a meal among dignitaries. Not to mention how to speak to people in a higher position.”

“Okay,” she says, grating on my nerves.

I was sure she’d be insulted about the etiquette classes. I would be. And yet, she hasn’t tossed back any sass. “If that’s all, I’m going to sleep.” She lies down again and turns away from me.

I slide my hand over my jaw and try not to let my discomfort get the best of me, but of course it does. Tonight has been one long night of irritation. She wasn’t home. She wasn’t texting me back. She got home very late. Didn’t seem to care that I was…well…concerned. She’s not treating me the same. She’s lost her spunk. And she’s not wearing my goddamn T-shirt.

As I list that all out, I know it’s fucking ridiculous to be annoyed by, because in the grand scheme of things, she’s doing nothing wrong. This is what she should be like in this type of arrangement. Detached. Distant. And yet somewhere in my sick fucking brain, I want more.

She turns off her light, and the room clouds in darkness as I sit there on the bed, staring at her back.

“There’s one more thing,” I say as I slide under the covers.

“What’s that?” she says as she stays turned away.

So I move in closer and glide my hand over her waist. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch.

“We’re going to have to be intimate in front of people.”

“And your point?” she says, as if this is no big deal.

My hand curls into a fist around the fabric of her shirt. “My point is, if I touch you, hold your hand, press a kiss to your cheek, you need to not be surprised.”

“Hudson, unless somehow your tongue finds my pussy in public, I’m pretty sure we’re not going to have a problem.”

“I’m being serious, Sloane.”

On an irritated sigh, she rolls to her back and looks up at me. In the moonlit room, I take in her soft facial features and the rounded curve of her jawline. She’s…she’s so damn beautiful. I wish that circumstances were different.

“If I thought this was a joke, I’d be laughing. I know you’re being serious.”

“Then…then why are you acting like this?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“Like…like you don’t care?”

“I do care,” she says. “But I’m exhausted with this, with us. I’m kind of over it. So let’s just get through the next couple of weeks, and then we can move on with our lives.”

My brow creases because I don’t like what she said, that she’s kind of over it. Over what, exactly?

“Is this about the other night?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not.”

“Because I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry if…if I hurt your feelings. I know I can be an ass when I’m stressed, but you know I can’t do anything about us.”

She pats my chest. “It’s fine, Hudson. Don’t sweat it. Now, unless you have anything else to say, I’m going to bed.”

Don’t sweat it?

Oh, I’m going to sweat about it because this Sloane roller coaster I’ve been on has not been the easiest. The moment she walked into my office, ready to be my assistant, I knew I was in trouble, but I never thought it would turn into something this intense.

It’s already beyond complicated because I feel the need to take care of her, to treat her well, to make sure she has everything she needs, yet I need to keep her at arm’s length. I need to set a boundary because there is a great possibility that if I let her get too close, if I let her break down my walls, I could become attached.

And I can’t be attached.

Not with who she’s related to.

Not when I’m carrying around a load of baggage.

Not when I just need to stay focused on the business.

And, fuck, we haven’t even gotten to the heart of what we need to do when we’re in London. We’re at the tip of the iceberg. If we’re already irritated with each other now, imagine what it’s going to be like when we’re knee-deep in dancing and meetings. Not to mention, what happens after this? Is she…is she going to continue to work with me? The thought of her not coming back to the office when we return makes my stomach hurt. I know I can’t have her. I know she’s not mine, but I don’t want her to leave either. I’ve realized I’ve become comfortable having her close, seeing her every day.

Jesus, what has come over me?

With nothing else to say, because what really is there to say, I release her and turn to my side, getting comfortable with my pillow as I feel her turn away.

I’ve done some pretty dumb things in my life—like hiring Sloane to work for me in the first place—but this…marrying her, yeah, I earned the gold in the “dumb shit to do” Olympics.

I stare at my watch on my wrist, watching the seconds tick by as I pace the airport, next to our gate, waiting for Sloane to show up.

I fucking knew taking two cars to the airport was going to bite me in the ass, but I forgot my computer at the office like an idiot, so I told her I’d meet her at the airport.

And now that I’m here and she’s nowhere to be found, nor is she answering her phone, I’m starting to fucking panic.

What if she decided not to show up? This morning, when she was finishing packing, I gave her a hard time for waiting until the last minute because I was stressed watching her. And then I ended up being the one that forgot something. Did I push her too hard?

Of course you did, you fucking idiot.

You put her in this mess and now she’s not going to come because you can’t handle your stress appropriately.

And you’re the one calling her young…

I drag my hand over my face, visibly stressed as I check my phone again.

I’m going to have a heart attack. That is exactly what that feels like, a heart attack.

I stuff my phone back in my pocket, and I’m about to ask the gate attendant to call her name over the intercom when I hear the sound of her laughter. I turn around to find her arm linked through another man’s, heading right toward me.

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

Tall with black hair and dark-rimmed glasses, the man looks like a knockoff Clark Kent.

“There you are,” Sloane says with ease as she releases the other man, walks straight up to me, slides her hand up my chest, and presses a kiss right to the corner of my mouth. I feel my breath hitch as she pulls away and then slips her arm around my waist and leans her head against my chest. “Devin, meet my husband, Hudson. Hudson, this is Devin. We went to college together.”

Devin holds out his hand, and I reluctantly take it. “Devin, nice to meet you,” I say as I keep a firm grasp around Sloane.

“Nice to meet you.” He looks me up and down, assessing. Assess all you want, you fuck, she’s married to me. “I had no idea Sloane was married, nor did I know she was going to London to be in Sheridan’s wedding.”

“Do you know Sheridan?” I ask.

“Yeah, she’s my childhood neighbor. Our families go way back.”

Fucking great, which means…

“Devin is going to be at the wedding. Isn’t that fun?” Sloane asks.

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing back my animosity for a man I don’t even know. “Are you in the wedding party?”

“I am,” he says. “I was telling Sloane, I know all of the dances. I have no problem showing her.”

Oh, I have a fucking problem.

A real fucking problem.

“Even showed her a little bit of one at the bar.”

“Bar?” I ask.

“That’s where I ran into Devin,” Sloane answers.

“Flying sort of freaks me out,” he says with this boyish charm that I don’t appreciate. “I always like to grab a beer or two before I board.” He glances at the gate and then adds, “Shit, we actually need to get on the plane.”

“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth. “They’re about to do last call.”

“Well, might as well get on.” Devin nods toward the gate. “Shall we?”

“I think we shall,” Sloane says sweetly as she heads toward the gate, following behind Devin.

Devin steps up to the gate agent and scans his ticket. He steps off to the side and waits for us, which grates on my nerves. We’re not a threesome; move the fuck on.

I scan our boarding passes on my phone and then take Sloane’s hand in mine, marking my territory as we head down the jet bridge.

“Remember that party we went to at the football house our senior year?” Devin asks as he walks in front of us, turning just enough so he is able to engage in conversation.

“Yes.” Sloane chuckles. “That was a good night.”

“A really good one,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

The fuck? Do that again, motherfucker, and I’ll rip your goddamn eyebrows right off your forehead.

“Are you guys heading back to economy?”

Heat rips through my body as I answer, “First class.”

“Nice.” He nods. “Me too. I’m guessing you got the middle pods together.”

“We did,” I answer as we move toward the front of the plane.

“Well, I’m right here,” Devin says, finding his seat that’s right across the aisle from ours. “If you want to come hang out, you know where to find me.”

Yeah, over my dead body.

“Maybe I’ll pop on over,” Sloane says. “Have a good flight.”

“You too,” Devin says and then gets settled in his seat while I shuffle us over to ours. Thankfully, we have pods that are connected with walls that rise, blocking us off from everyone around us.

I guide Sloane into the pod and immediately put up the wall before sitting her down and taking a seat as well.

“Oh, this is roomy⁠—”

“What the hell were you doing with him?” I whisper, getting extremely close to her.

“Pardon me?” she asks, leaning back.

“You were dancing in an airport bar with him? While I was fucking waiting for you, worried that you weren’t going to show up?”

“You were worried?” she asks, a crinkle to her brow.

“Yeah, I was fucking worried. I was texting you, calling, you weren’t answering, and then you show up with that fuck, hanging all over him.”

“Uh, first of all”—she holds up her finger—“I was not hanging all over him. Second of all, he was the one who stopped me. We got to talking, and I just lost track of time. I guess it was good we were on the same flight, huh?”

“I don’t like him,” I say.

“You don’t know him.”

“I know him enough that I understand the way he was clinging to you, the way he was looking at you. And that bullshit about the football party, he brought that up only to make me jealous.”

“Yeah, and it seems like it worked.”

“Sloane, don’t test me,” I say, my irritation at an all-time high. And here I was, thinking I scared her away.

“As if I would want to poke the bear.” She rolls her eyes and gets comfortable in her seat. “Trust me, the last thing I want to do is get this”—she motions to my body—“all riled up.” She plucks the complimentary headphones from the hook and plugs them in before putting them over her ears.

I’m quick to remove them.

“We’re not finished here.”

“We sure are,” she says. “I’m not playing this game with you. There’s nothing to be upset about.”

“So…if you saw me dancing with an ex⁠—”

“He’s not an ex, just a guy that…you know.” She shrugs and then starts scrolling through the movies on the screen in front of her.

“That you what?”

“Come on, Hudson, use your brain. It’s the thing that’s causing you to be jealous right now.”

“Were you fuck buddies?” I ask.

“If it needs a label, sure.”

“I thought there was only one guy who…” My voice trails off as realization hits me. “Is that the guy? That’s the Devin you mentioned?” I ask.

“Yup,” she says and that just pushes me right over the goddamn edge.

He’s the guy who has a choke hold on her orgasm.

The one and only guy that’s ever made Sloane come.

She taps on the comedy genre and then chuckles when she sees Anchorman as a choice. She goes to click on it, but I stop her.

In a low, almost desperate voice, I say, “Sloane, how would you like it if⁠—”

“Can we not do hypotheticals?” she asks. “Come on, Hudson.” She shakes her head and sticks her headphones back on. I realize then that there isn’t going to be a fighting chance that I can get through to her.

There wasn’t last night, and there sure as hell won’t be today.

She has shut me out.

Completely.

Stoic, uninterested, she wants nothing to do with me, and you know what? I can’t even be fucking mad about it. I was the one who wanted this distance. I was the one who told her no time and time again. She’s given in, and there’s no reason why I should be this mad.

This irritated.

This itchy to have her back.

At least when she was walking around the house naked and in an apron, she was still herself.

Sassy.

Mouthy.

Keeping me on my goddamn toes.

Now she’s…hell, she’s slipping away. But maybe…maybe that’s a good thing. Because don’t I need to focus on the business? Don’t I need to focus on maintaining all the relationships involved? The distance should be good. The distance will make the end of this journey easy.

At least, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.

Instead of attempting to get her to pay attention to me, I let her turn on Anchorman as I pull my phone from my pocket and text my brother.

Hudson: I’m losing it.

While I wait for him to text back, I adjust my pillow and kick up my feet on the footrest in front of me. I glance at Sloane, who already has a blanket covering her and is looking extra cozy. I consider talking to her again but know there’s no use, at least not here, on the plane where Devin the Douche can hear us.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I immediately read the text.

Hardy: Let me guess, Sloane?

Hudson: Yes. We’re on our way to London, and I’ve managed to make a complicated situation exponentially more complicated.

Hardy: Sounds about right. Didn’t you know, happy wife, happy life?

Hudson: Apparently not.

Hardy: What did you do this time?

Hudson: The better question is, what didn’t I do? Christ, man, I’m not cut out for this shit.

Hardy: What’s going on?

Hudson: She’s detached herself, which I should be happy about, but I’m not. She has zero need to talk to me, interact. She plays the part when she needs to, but fuck, when we’re alone, it’s as if I’m nothing.

Hardy: Umm…shouldn’t that be a good thing?

Hudson: Yes! But I don’t fucking like it and then she ran into an old friend in the airport who happens to be on the same flight and in the wedding, but he’s also the one guy that’s ever made her orgasm. The way she talks about him, you would think he’s a goddamn hung horse.

Hardy: Well, is he? Have you looked inside his pants?

Hudson: Don’t be a jackass.

Hardy: How do you know he’s not hung?

Hudson: He wasn’t walking like he is.

Hardy: Maybe he rolls and tucks it.

Hudson: If I rolled and tucked my dick, I would be waddling around like a goddamn penguin.

Hardy: Shhh, for the love of God, don’t mention penguins. JP went on a rant the other day about them. I swear, if you talk about it too much, he’ll sense it. I can’t get on another one of his donation trains, man. I can’t.

Hudson: You have issues.

Hardy: Says the guy who’s mad that his wife, a wife he’s not supposed to be attached to, isn’t attached to him.

Hudson: Seriously, what am I supposed to do?

Hardy: Job one, forget about Sloane and any sort of attachment. It’s best this way. You and I both know that. Two, find out if Orgasm Boy is hung like a horse. Inquiring minds want to know.

Hudson: You’re not fucking helpful.

Hardy: Could have told you that from the start of this text thread.

Hudson: You know, when you were going through shit, I was helpful. Where’s the return?

Hardy: When I was going through shit, you were yelling at me for falling for a girl that works with our sister. You’re falling for a girl who is our sister’s sister-in-law and the sister of our fucking business partner. Awkwardness and sarcasm are the only reasons I’m not gnawing my leg off from nerves at the moment.

Hudson: And this is why being the older brother is more difficult.

Hardy: That and the age, your back is always going to hurt more than mine. Although I say that now, but you should have seen the position Everly had me in last night. I thought I was going to snap my spine.

Hudson: I don’t want to hear it.

Hardy: Jealous, I know. Probably been a while since you’ve had sex.

Hudson: Too fucking long.

Hardy: Shame you need to keep it in your pants.

Hudson: Yeah, trust me, it’s not coming out.

Hardy: Just the answer I wanted to hear. Good thing you have more self-control than I did. Although, my situation seemed to work out for me. Think Jude would take kindly to you messing with his sister?

Hudson: What the hell do you think?

Hardy: I think he’d sit on your head until you stopped breathing.

Hudson: Exactly.

Hardy: Well, glad we got that covered. Hey, serious question.

Hudson: What?

Hardy: Have you ever had your balls tickled by a feather? Everly did it to me last night and I pre-ejaculated.

Hudson: What the actual fuck, Hardy?

Hardy: What?

Hudson: Don’t fucking say shit like that.

Hardy: You’re my brother. Who the hell else am I supposed to share that with?

Hudson: No one! Keep that shit to yourself.

Hardy: I can’t stop thinking about it. Dude, I could not refrain, my dick was dancing all across my stomach. Like a fucking Magic Marker, decorating my abs.

Hudson: Bye.

Hardy: No wait, come back. I might have taken it too far with the Magic Marker thing. I can recognize that.

I set my phone down in the cubby just as a flight attendant comes by with a tray of champagne and water.

“Champagne? Water?” she asks.

I grab a champagne, thank her, and down it quickly. It’s going to be a long-ass flight…especially with that fucking Magic Marker visual stuck in my head.

“Sloane,” I whisper, tapping on her shoulder.

The cabin is dimmed. The meal service is over, and everyone has settled in to grab some sleep.

I, on the other hand, have made some bad choices.

Some very bad choices.

“Sloane.” I tap again.

Her sleep mask is over her eyes, her whole body is turned away from me, and her blanket is up to her chin.

“I see you in there,” I say, tapping again.

She snaps up, slips her eye mask up, and whispers, “What do you want?”

When her eyes meet mine, I smile. “Hi.”

Her expression falls flat as she stares back at me.

I wave.

And then realization hits her. “Are you drunk?”

My smile grows wider. “The flight attendant has been heavy-handed with the champagne.”

“Jesus, Hudson,” she says as she turns toward me now. There’s a partition between us, nothing too big but big enough to annoy me. “Sleep it off.”

“I can’t sleep. I’m not tired.”

“Here you go, sir,” the flight attendant says, bringing me another mini champagne flute.

Sloane sits up farther and holds her hand out. “Actually, can you take that back? He doesn’t need another one.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I say. “I’m thirsty.” I reach for the champagne, but Sloane pushes my hand down.

“Seriously, can you bring him water?”

The flight attendant eyes me for a moment, then to my annoyance, takes my champagne back to the galley.

“That was fucking rude.”

“Hudson. Why are you drunk?” Sloane asks.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I don’t feel drunk.”

“Well, you are.”

“Prove it,” I say.

She sighs and then picks up my phone and, unbeknownst to me, takes a picture of me, nearly searing my eyes with the flash. She turns the screen toward me, but I have to blink a few times before the picture comes into view.

And yup, there I am, looking drunk as can be with my eyelids heavy and my face sagging, almost in defeat.

“It’s your fault,” I say, pointing at her as the flight attendant puts a mini bottle of water next to me.

“How is you getting drunk my fault?” she asks.

“Because you’re not being nice to me.”

“I’m not being nice to you. How so?” she asks, fully turning toward me now.

“You’re not…you’re not yourself, and I don’t like it.”

“Uh-huh, and what would that entail?”

I shrug and sway to the side. “You’re not wearing my T-shirt to bed.”

“And that makes you…”

“Sad,” I say.

“Mmm, but why should that matter?”

“Because I like when you wear it. Actually, why don’t you wear my shirt right now?” I reach behind my head and start to tug on my shirt, but she quickly stops me.

“Do not take your shirt off on the plane, Hudson.”

“But I want you wearing it. And why don’t you care about me?”

“I do care about you.”

I shake my head and reach over the partition to take her hand in mine. She lets me. “No, you don’t. You don’t talk to me anymore or look at me or…or…get naked.”

“I never got naked for you,” she says, the smallest of smiles tugging on her lips.

“Yes, you did. The apron.” I blow out a breath and lean my shoulder against the back of my chair. “I can’t stop dreaming about your ass in that thong.”

Her smile grows. “Oh yeah?”

I slowly nod. “Yup. I wanted it so bad.”

“Shame you couldn’t take what you wanted.”

“I know,” I say, and I link our hands together. “If I had it my way, you’d never remember that Deacon guy.”

“Deacon? You mean Devin?”

“Yeah. Devin the Douche. You wouldn’t even be thinking about his dick.”

“What would I be thinking about?” she asks.

I bring our connected hands up to my lips, and I press a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “You’d be thinking about my dick.”

“Pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?”

I shake my head. “No, you would.” I pause and then lean closer. “Does he roll his dick?”

“Huh?” she asks cutely.

“Douche, does he roll his dick up?”

“Uh…no.”

“So he’s not hung like a horse?”

She chuckles and leans in closer, the smell of her perfume clouding my thoughts even more. “He’s pretty big.”

“Fuck.” I exhale and lean my head against my chair now. “I didn’t want him to be big.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t like that you’ve been with a big dick.”

“Because you’re…small?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Because I want to be the only big dick you know.”

“Can you be quiet?” the lady next to us whispers. “You’re being rude while people try to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Sloane says with a wave of her hand. Then she whispers to me, “Drink your water and get some rest.”

She lets go of my hand and turns back around.

Not satisfied, I pick up my phone and text her. I know she signed on to the airplane Wi-Fi because I caught her texting her sister earlier.

Hudson: I want to be the only big duck in your life.

Shit.

Hudson: Duck.

God dammit.

Hudson: Not duck. Duck.

Growling, I slowly type out the word dick, and when I’m satisfied, I send it.

Hudson: Dick.

Sloane picks up her phone and reads the messages, a cute smile passing over her lips.

Sloane: Go to bed, Hudson.

Hudson: No. I want to talk.

Sloane: There is nothing to talk about.

Hudson: Did you suck him off?

Sloane: We’re not doing this.

Hudson: When you saw him today, were you excited?

Sloane: Hudson, GO TO SLEEP.

Hudson: When he touched you…did you like it?

Sloane: Do you really want to know?

Hudson: Yeah, I really want to know.

Sloane: If I tell you, will you go to sleep?

Hudson: Yes.

Sloane: Promise?

Hudson: Promise.

Sloane: Fine. When I saw him today, I felt familiarity. When he danced with me, I felt special. When he linked my arm through his, I felt cherished. When I saw you and kissed the corner of your mouth…I felt butterflies.

I stare at her words, my heart racing a mile a fucking minute.

Because that’s what I wanted to hear, that’s what I wanted to know.

My phone buzzes again.

Sloane: Now go to sleep.

She sets her phone in her cubby, flips her eye mask down, and brings her blanket back up to her chin, shutting me out.