Tight (8 page)

“What do you do?”

His question brought me back. I popped an elusive red grape in my mouth before answering. “I’m a financial advisor. I work at a local bank in a town called Quincy.”

“Why Quincy?”

I shrugged. “It’s my hometown. After college I spent a few years in Athens with a guy I was dating. When that ended ... I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Didn’t want to stay in Athens. So I came home.” The super exciting story of my life. I changed the focus of the conversation. “What about you?”

He leaned back. “Fort Lauderdale. The bank can’t do without you for a few days?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Why Fort Lauderdale? What do you do there?”

“I sell boats.”

God, this guy was a regular chatterbox. I let my eyes float over the suite, the dining room table we seemed more likely to fuck on, the watch draped over his wallet, a brand I didn’t recognize, but one I could guarantee was worth what I made in a year. “You sell boats.”

He chuckled. “Yes.” He slid over, pushing his tray forward, so close to the edge of the bed that I watched it nervously, my attention redirected when his lips closed over my neck. “Stop thinking,” he whispered, taking another taste of my neck, this one more aggressive, one that would probably leave a hickey. Super classy, Riley. My mother would be thrilled. I closed my eyes. Leaned into his mouth. Let his arms slide my body up the bed and roll me atop him.

“I was overdramatic last night. What I said to you. About owning you.”

“I figured it was for effect.”

“But this isn’t something I do. I don’t make a habit of fucking strangers.” His words tumbled awkwardly over the expletive, as if he wasn’t used to swearing.

“Neither do I.” Hell, I lived in a town where strangers didn’t exist, and I
still
hadn’t done any fucking. Showed what happened when I tried to brave life outside of our dirt roads.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

“Nothing.” The lie came out convincingly. Kasey Craig, my second cousin on some distant family member’s side, was actually having a baby shower on Saturday. Her fourth one in the last six years, yet there would be serious repercussions if I was not present. It is the South, after all. Not to mention, I also had plans to spray the yard for bugs. Super important stuff that my lie pushed to the side. I
wanted
this man. I knew little to nothing about him, but I craved something outside of my world. I was sick of pantyhose and mutual funds. Potluck dinners and familial obligations. This weekend was the most alive I’d felt in a decade. Part of it was the location; the majority of it had lay atop me. Had moved inside of me. Had woken me at 4 AM begging for five minutes inside of me, then blessed my world for twenty.

I was thirty-two. I was not dead. I was not in a relationship. I was bored. Had he asked me to pack up my house and move to Fort Lauderdale right now, I would have been tempted to say yes.

“See me next weekend. I’ll send you a plane. It won’t be the jet you girls flew in on, but it’ll get you to me easier than commercial.”

I looked at him. “How do you know what we came in on?”

“Don’t get too excited. I was at the private airport when you arrived.” He ran a hand through my hair. “Pretty blondes always catch my eye.”

I let out a huff of air. “We’re almost all blondes.”

He smiled, that grin tugging hard at my vulnerable heart. “You leave them all in the dust.”

The blush hot on my cheeks, I lifted my mouth, stopped from a kiss by his hand on my chest. “Next weekend?”

I smiled. “Maybe.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it.” His hand ran up my back, into my hair, his eyes softening as he studied me. Then, from beside us, the shrill screech of his phone. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Let me get that.”

I rolled off him and watched him stand, the smooth swipe of his phone. He didn’t check the display, just answered and held it to his ear. “Hey.” He turned, giving me a wink as he opened the slider and stepped onto the balcony, the glass fitting snug as it closed, his words taken by the wind. I propped up on my elbows and studied him, the strong width of his back as he leaned against the railing, the break of his smile as he laughed. He huddled over the phone, cupping his hand over the receiver as if protecting it, the wind strong enough to tousle his hair and press his shirt flat against his chest.

I stared at him and felt my heart beating faster, my eyes tripping over the grip of his hand, the flap of his shirt. I wondered who he was talking to, out in the wind, this suite quiet and still.
Except for me
. Obviously, he went out for privacy. I yanked my eyes off him and swung my feet over the edge of the bed. He wanted to see me again, another weekend like this — one where we’d both pretend to be people we weren’t and where I’d lose another piece of myself. He’d return to his life, and I’d have fallen a little deeper into the hole that was Brett Jacobs. I had the sudden, urgent desire to leave, to run from this man before goodbyes and false promises dirtied this memory. Better for me to leave now, while I had some tatters of dignity. While I could still pretend it was my choice. Look at me, the fun girl who bedded wild men and skipped out without a care in the world. I could play that girl, here in this empty room, with only a dirty room service tray to call my bluff. I scooped up my heels, checked for any forgotten items, then grabbed my cell and purse and slipped out the door.

tight (tīt)

(adj.)
closely integrated and bound in love or friendship

“a tight-knit family”

Six girls on one jet was a disaster. We climbed in, elbows bumping armpits, suitcases unzipped on the pavement and last minute items grabbed before the pilot swung the luggage into the back. The plane belonged, like every other perk of the weekend, to Chelsea’s dad. We’d used it a few times before: down to Panama City for spring break, up to Pennsylvania to ski. Enough times that we all had our place on the plane, jeans hitting seats with minimal arguments.

The door closed and there was one quiet moment before Megan, while pulling out her headphones, threw out the bone that started the conversation.

“Tammy says Riley didn’t come home last night.”

I groaned, pulling up my sweatshirt hood and slumping down in the seat, the neck-supporter doing little to ease the tension building. “Please. Don’t act like you’re sharing news that everyone hasn’t already analyzed to death.”
Why? Why did I have my one moment of slutdom right before a two-hour flight with them?

“Well, you know
my
opinion on the subject.”

A collective groan resonated through the cabin. Yes, we all knew Megan’s opinion on the subject. The thirty-one-year-old virgin never missed a moment to voice her stance.

“Well, Megan, you sit there with your headphones and have a moment of silence to mourn the passing of Riley’s celibacy,” Chelsea said tartly. “I want
details
. I’m ten weeks away from being a one-penis woman.”

“You’ve been a one-penis woman since tenth grade,” Beth piped in from the back.

“Can we please stop calling Chelsea a “one-penis woman”? I’m getting sideshow visions.” I closed the curtain beside me and wished this plane would freaking get going so we could have some airflow.

The door to the cockpit slid open and the co-pilot leaned back.
Great
.
With my luck, we’re having engine trouble.
“I hate to bother you ladies, but there’s a gentleman outside the plane.”

We all shut up long enough to hear the bang of something against the door. Chelsea was the first to get her window curtain aside, my seat putting me on the wrong side of the plane. But I knew, as soon as her head snapped to me, who was outside. I closed my eyes for a brief moment. “Don’t tell me...”

They didn’t have to tell me. Mitzi worked the latch, the door swung up with a burst of sunlight, and I swear I could
smell
him, the scent of masculinity and possession as he strode up the stairs and pointed at me, his gorgeous mouth curving into a grin. “You. Outside. Unless you want me to kiss you senseless in front of all these ladies.”

My glare’s effect was weakened by the whoops of five women, a smattering of applause accompanying the cheers. I glanced at Chelsea, her dad’s bill ticking higher with every minute we sat on the jetway. She tilted her head toward Brett, her eyes brimming with excitement, and moved her feet from the aisle. Rolling my eyes, I pushed off the armrests, my gaze drawing, without intent, to the delicious backside of Brett as he jogged down the plane’s steps.

I plodded behind him, my tennis shoes heavy and slow.
What is he doing here? And why
—his shoes hit the ground and he turned, extending a hand out to me and tugging when I slid my palm into his. I made it down the last few steps, falling into his chest, his arms sliding up and wrapping around me. I looked up into his face. “Why are you—”

He silenced my question with his mouth, a firm kiss that he punctuated with action, his hands sliding down my arms and settling on my ass, squeezing the cheeks as if verifying his claim. “You left,” he accused, pulling his mouth from mine and looking down, his words hard to focus on as he continued to grip my ass like he had every right.

“It was a fun weekend. No need to spoil it with false promises.” I barely got out the words before he let go and dug in his pocket, my butt already missing the contact. I glanced up at the open door, curious faces darting away, Chelsea’s big smile the only one to stay put. She watched without shame, my glare doing nothing to dissuade her. I’m shocked she didn’t open some popcorn and prop up her feet.

“Here.” He pressed something into my hand, and I looked down, a piece of hotel stationary folded in two, his number scribbled on the outside. “Call or text me when you get home safely, if you want. Or throw it away. It’s in your court. But I couldn’t let you leave without it.”

I could feel the weight of the girls’ stares, the tick of the clock as expensive minutes passed, the heat of the sun as it prickled the sunburnt tops of my shoulders. “I told you, this doesn’t have to be anything.”

“Or,” he shrugged, stepping forward, his mouth pressing softly against my cheek, my lips crying for the missed contact, the taste of his tongue, the
onelastchance
that might have just flown by, “it could be the start of everything.”

Then he stepped, one slow step back, then two, his hand reaching out, a casual wave given as his mouth broke open into a smile that would make Rob Lowe envious. “See ya, Riley.”

I waved a slow hand, his number in between my fingers, fluttering in the wind, my hand dropping, closing tighter around the paper as I turned before he could and jogged up the steps of the plane. The door shut behind me, and I faced five seats of silent, curious eyes.

“Shut it,” I blurted, dropping back into my seat and fastening the belt, my fingers shoving his number into my tote bag’s inside pocket. “It was nothing.”

“That, right there?” Tiny Beth stood, the pilot barking a protest, and pointed outside, all eyes craning to the windows. I didn’t even want to know the view, didn’t want to know what made a few squeals come from that general vicinity. “That was textbook romance. I’d give up an ovary for that right there.”

Chelsea reached out and yanked at Beth’s shirt, pulling her to her seat, the pilot finally turning back, the engines increasing in speed as

Every.

Eye.

Remained.

Locked.

On.

Me.

“Stop it,” I warned, reclining the seat and stuffing the neck support back into place. “I had a one-night stand. End of story.”

“Then you won’t need his
number
.”

I pried open one eye to see Beth reaching across the aisle, digging for my purse, Chelsea’s booted heel catching her wrist and causing a shriek of pain.

“Before Riley shares all the juicy secrets about her night of passion, let me give you ladies the rundown on Mr. Brett Jacobs.” Jena’s voice crowed from behind me.

“I’m not sharing any juicy secrets,” I interjected. I pulled the purse out of reach, sandwiching it between my calves, and closed my eyes, feigning disinterest.

Jena didn’t pause, the trajectory of her voice indicating a rise in position, the blonde no doubt holding court and relishing every moment of it. “Brett Jacobs is listed on Betschart Yachts’ website as being a sales manager, his job description consists of ... well, he’s a salesman,” she finished plainly. “But of big-ticket items. Their cheapest yacht starts at ten million, which…” At her pause, there was a flutter of papers. Good God, the woman probably had a PowerPoint presentation at the ready. “Which, if I estimate just a percentage of commission, we’re talking six figures per boat.” There was an impressed hum of approval from the group, and I willed her to shut up. The plane moved forward, and some of my hair got caught in the fresh grip of her hand on my headrest. I winced, reaching a hand back and carefully pulled my ponytail free, the action discovering a wealth of knots and bumps along the top of my head. Great ... messy hair. Way to make a lasting impression.