The door to the lift began to buzz in warning as I continued to hold it ajar, a shrill soundtrack to what had to be one of the most awkward encounters ever.
“So I’ll see you Monday.” Her voice wavered with nerves, and I felt a cold sweat prick at the back of my neck. “I’m really looking forward to it,” she said.
“Right. Good.”
With a little tilt of her head, and a final blush that exploded rather sweetly across her cheeks, she stepped off the lift.
Without really intending to, my eyes drifted to her backside as she went. It was round, high, perfectly shaped in her smooth, dark skirt. I could imagine the curve of it in my palm, could still smell the whiff of rose water she left in her wake.
I stepped out into the dark lobby and followed her toward the exit. Without effort, my mind drifted to thoughts of how her breasts would fill my hands, the feel of her mouth on me, my palms on her backside. I wasn’t rubbish in bed, was I? And even though Portia had generally treated sex as a favor to me, she had never once failed to enjoy—
This unconscious flash of interest was quashed when Tony emerged from the stairwell, giving me a wink and a little wiggle of his brow, murmuring, “Shagfest,” as Ruby rounded the corner. Left in its place was a sour twinge of shame for letting his earlier suggestion worm its way into my head.
* * *
Growing up with twelve people in the house, air travel simply didn’t happen often, and when it did—the odd puddle jumper with a few kids to Ireland and once, when it was only me and Rebecca left at home, Mum and Dad took us to Rome to see the pope—it put the entire house in an uproar of preparation. We had regular Sunday clothes that weren’t as posh as our Christmas mass kits, and even those were yards below our air travel outfits. It was a hard habit to break, even when dressing before the sun rose, but this history dictated why I found myself at Heathrow, wearing a suit at four thirty on Monday morning.
By contrast, Ruby sprinted in just at my panic point—when the flight was boarding—in a zip-front pink hoodie, black workout pants, and bright blue trainers. I saw the response to her pass through the crowd in a quiet ripple. I couldn’t tell if Ruby noticed or not, but nearly every set of male eyes—and many female as well—followed her as she made her way toward our gate.
She looked casual but fresh, her cheeks flushed from her run and her full, pink lips parted as she caught her breath.
She stopped short when she found me in the crowd, her eyes going wide as saucers.
“Shit.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean, crap,” she mumbled from behind it. “Do we have a meeting right when we land?” She began searching through her phone. “I memorized the schedule and I could have sworn—”
I felt my brows pull together. “No . . . ?” She’d memorized our schedule?
“I . . . you look really dressed up for the plane. I feel like a hobo in comparison.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was meant to feel insulted or praised. “You don’t look like a hobo.”
She groaned, covering her face. “It’s a long flight. I thought we were going to sleep.”
I smiled politely, though the thought of sleeping next to her on a flight created an anxious, gnawing sensation in my gut. “I’ve a few work things to do before we arrive. Feel better dressed for the occasion, that’s all.”
I wasn’t actually sure which one of us had misjudged, but looking at the attire on most of the boarding passengers around us, I was beginning to understand it was me.
With one last wary glance at my suit, she turned and made her way down the jetway to board and stowed her tote in the overhead above our seats. I made every effort to not look at her backside again . . . and failed.
Sweet Lord. It was unbelievable.
Oblivious, Ruby turned and I pulled my gaze up to her face just as she gestured to the two seats. “Do you want the aisle or window?” she asked.
“Either is fine.”
I removed my suit coat and handed it to the flight attendant, watching as Ruby slid into the window seat and tucked away her iPad and book, keeping a small notebook with her.
Seated beside her, and even with the rest of the passengers still boarding, a heavy silence descended between us. Christ. Not only did we have six hours on the flight today, but then nearly four weeks in New York together for the summit.
Four weeks. I felt mildly ill.
I suppose I could ask her how she liked Richardson-Corbett or how long she’d lived in London. She wasn’t under my charge, but working for Tony, I was sure her time there had been . . . eventful. I could ask her where she grew up—though I knew from Tony it was California. At least it might break the ice a little.