“Can I get you something, Mrs. Blackwell?” The flight attendant appeared from a niche around the corner with a smile.
“I have it, thank you.”
She disappeared again, leaving Gabi to fend for herself. She wasn’t hungry but needed to do something with her hands, so she proceeded to fill a glass with ice . . . a splash of vodka. Maybe she could sleep?
The ruffling of Hunter’s paper caught her attention.
He was watching her, his expression as unreadable as it had been that morning.
Telling him what had happened to her felt right the night before. Now she regretted it. The distance between them had narrowed on the island and was destined to spread like the Grand Canyon now.
Hunter shook his head and looked away. “I’m leaving tomorrow night for New York. I’ll be there until Saturday.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. A week ago, she would have applauded. Today it felt like rejection. “Oh.”
“I need you to join me in Dallas Saturday for dinner with the Adams.”
She sipped the vodka, wish she’d poured more into the glass.
“All right.”
“I’ll have the jet ready for you Saturday morning. I’ll meet you at the Hyatt.” He sounded like he was talking to Andrew.
“Should I make a reservation?”
“Tiffany will take care of it.”
Wonderful. She finished her drink, poured a second.
“What are you doing, Gabi?”
She didn’t meet his eyes as she lifted her glass in the air in salute. “Enjoying a cocktail. Would you like one?” She turned and opened the cupboard that housed the crystal glasses with a little too much force. The glassware rattled as she tossed ice into his glass.
She hadn’t seen him approach and only stopped when his hand covered hers.
She snapped back as if burned.
He stepped back. “You’re upset.”
“No,” she said. “I’m pissed. At myself.” The worst kind of anger.
“Why?”
She abandoned his glass and fisted hers as she put a few feet between them.
“I should have never told you about Alonzo.”
“Why?”
All her nervous energy kept her from sitting. She swirled the ice inside her drink and looked into it as if it held the right words. “Because I’d rather endure your hate . . . your passion, than your cold tolerance or pity.”
“Cold tolerance?” his voice rose. “I’m trying to give you space.”
“You’re disgusted with the facts. Don’t try and tell me any differently. I’ve seen the look before.” In the mirror, for months after Alonzo had died.
He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right. I am disgusted.”
She cringed. Wanted to cry.
“With a dead man. With myself.”
“With me.”
“No!” he yelled.
“Then why are you being so cold?”
Gabi’s hand went still, her eyes followed him as he attempted to move.
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“You seemed to know last night.”
He stopped pacing, looked at her over his shoulder.
Some of her anger faded in his look of distress.
“Damn it, Gabi, don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you trust me.”
Did she trust him? Maybe a little more than when they’d met.
“You can’t trust me. I will fuck up. I always do.”
Now it was her turn to feel pity . . . pity for him.
“Hunter—”
He lifted a hand in the air, cutting off her words. “Last night while you slept, I laid there trying to figure out a way to release you.”
Instead of the elation she would have expected, a stronger sense of denial swam up her spine.
“Then the cold son of a bitch I am clicked in. I can’t let you go . . . not now . . . not yet.”
She set her drink down, crossed her arms over her chest. “So you decided to treat me like baggage instead.”
His gray eyes held hers. “I know how to handle baggage. I don’t know how to handle you.”
She stepped forward and poked two fingers into his chest. “Well let me give you a tip, Wall Street. You don’t let me open up to you, especially after my mother’s kitchen, and then wake today acting like nothing happened.”
She dug her nail in a little harder.
He captured her hand and squeezed. “Your mother’s kitchen is exactly why I’m being the bastard that I am now.”
She tried to pull away, failed.
“Your image of me is different now. I get it. It’s hard to see past a needle once you’ve envisioned it.”
“What?”
Insecurity was thick on her tongue. Alonzo had taken pictures of her. Those nasty pictures that he sent to Val flashed in her mind. “I don’t blame you.” She tugged her hand again.
“Blame? You think my need to touch you is gone because of what that bastard did to you?”
She didn’t meet his eyes.
He tugged her hand closer and turned her into the closed door of the bedroom suite. He was on her in a breath.
His hard body molding itself to hers, his growing erection pressing firm on her belly. Long fingers let loose her hand and wove onto her neck. And then his lips were in the exact place they’d been before Meg had interrupted them. Insecurity flew away like the wind blowing past the plane at over three hundred miles an hour.
Hunter’s lips were hot, open as he dragged his teeth along her neck.
Gabi slumped against the door.