Lexington
I think my brain might explode. Amalie—poised, put-together (apart from the night of her wedding, understandably) demure, sexy-as-fuck Amalie—has the Willy Wonka equivalent of a portable sex shop stored in her goddamn carry-on.
“I’m going to have to clean everything,” she gripes.
The security guards are acting as if they’ve found a bag of candy and they’re about to fight over who gets to eat it. She’s right about the cleanliness issue. Those two have touched pretty much every item in that bag. Although they are wearing gloves.
I have to wonder what happened to make them open it in the first place. She hardly looks the criminal type. In fact, she’s exactly the opposite. Amalie’s appearance fits into the sweetly sexy category, and she’s become infinitely sexier thanks to the fuck toy factory she’s warehousing in that bag. The stainless-steel plug is rather intriguing. Amalie appears to be a naughty, dirty girl. Which begs the question: why the hell was Armstrong putting his dick in other mouths?
“May I please assist? The steel and the glass shouldn’t be next to each other.” Amalie’s voice is matter of fact, sweet like sugar with a hint of a waver. But her posture reflects her annoyance.
“Oh yeah, sure, sorry.” The security jerks step back and watch her do her thing, rearranging items, wrapping, moving things around. She’s gentle and efficient, her embarrassment over this only visible in the hint of pink in her cheeks and the single bead of sweat working its way down her temple, along with the tremulous exhalation of breath.
This is the version of her I’m most familiar with—minus the bag of sex toys. The polite smile, calm, even demeanor, despite present circumstances. That she’s keeping it together as well as she is, considering what she’s been through, is a testament to her strength as a person.
I note the barely imperceptible tremor in her hand and the heavy bob of her throat as she shifts the items in her carry-on around. There’s plenty of space for adjustments now that the bottles of lube are missing. She zips the interior compartment, then closes the bag.
“I can get that for you,” one of the security douches offers.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.” In her rush to zip the case closed, her fingernail catches on the teeth, tearing it. “Shit!” She shakes out her hand and inspects the damage. She’s torn it to the quick, blood pooling and dripping down her ring finger. Which I note is diamond-free.
I reach into my jacket pocket and root around for a tissue, but all I can find is a pocket square, likely from a past event. “Here, let me see.”
I take her hand before she has a chance to protest and wrap the fabric around her finger, gently pressing below the nail bed. Red expands across the gray.
She tries to pull her hand away, but I hold tight. “I’m fine, Lexington, really. You’ll never get the blood out.”
“I’m not too concerned about a scrap of fabric that essentially serves no purpose other than to be decorative.” Long, slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails, apart from the torn one, flex around my palm. She has delicate hands, soft skin. My asshole cousin had access to these hands and he was dumb enough to ruin it. He really is an idiot.
Amalie places her free hand on my forearm. “Lexington, please.” The tremor is more prominent, and it echoes in her voice. Her panic is clear when I lift my eyes to hers. She blinks rapidly, her lashes wetting with each frantic attempt to keep her emotions in check. “Please.” It’s barely a sound.
I release her hand and my pocket square flutters to the ground.
“I’m sorry.” She shoulders her purse, grabs her carry-on, and nods to the security guards before striding through the doors, toward the departure gates.
I scoop up the stained fabric, jam it in my pocket, and follow her. She’s speed walking in heels. “Hey!” I call out, even though it’s clear she’s trying to escape me now that this most recent fiasco is over.
I don’t know when I’ll see her again, and with the way things happened at the wedding, and just now, that doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t want her to feel bad about what went down in her bridal suite. “Hey! Amalie.” I grab her elbow.
Her head drops along with her shoulders. The submissive posture doesn’t last long. She straightens her spine on a deep exhale, turns her despondent gaze on me, and gives me her signature polite smile. “Thank you for helping me out of an awkward situation.” She inclines her head in the direction of the security checkpoint. “It was very . . . creative.”
Her eyes flutter shut again for a brief moment. She tucks blond strands behind her ear, releasing another tremulous breath. “I’d also like to apologize for my behavior in the bridal suite. I was very . . . distressed and I acted inappropriately. I shouldn’t have . . . attacked you like that.”
That’s one way to interpret it I suppose. “I’m very capable of defending myself when necessary, and I at no point felt attacked.”
Her smile falters and her chin trembles. “I somehow seriously doubt that’s true. I’m not usually a lunatic. Anyway, I’m very sorry. Have a safe trip, Lexington.”
She turns to walk away, but I’m still gripping her elbow. “Amalie, wait.” I don’t know what I’m going to say, or if there is a combination of words that will make what happened less awkward for her. My initial response is to make light of things, but I’m not sure a joke is appropriate with the way she seems like she’s about to fall apart.
“Please, Lex, I need to go. I need—” A tear leaks out of the corner of her eye and she swipes it away, pulling free of my grasp.
Her kitten heels clip on the tile floor as she rushes away, disappearing into the ladies’ bathroom. I consider waiting, but I feel like I might make things worse if I do. I hope the next time I see her it’s under better circumstances and she’s less distressed and embarrassed.
Resigned, I make my way to the lounge—which I’m grateful I have access to. I’m also thankful there was a first-class seat available on this flight. Eighteen hours on a plane in coach would’ve been a form of torture. I’m tall, and not particularly narrow, so anything over four hours in cramped seating leads to all kinds of muscles seizing up.
I order a coffee and browse the menu. At this odd hour, I feel like breakfast. While I’m waiting for my eggs Benedict to arrive I check emails. Ursula, my assistant, has forwarded all the information I requested on the hotels I’ll be visiting. I guess it’s good I have eighteen hours in which I’ll be stuck in a seat, unable to go anywhere but the bathroom, to review it all.
I spend the next twenty minutes reading emails, only breaking long enough to inhale the eggs Benny and request a coffee refill. My plates have been cleared, apart from the coffee cup, and I’m considering a bloody Mary since boarding is still another thirty minutes away, when the clip of heels draws my gaze toward the lounge entrance. Amalie freezes when she sees me. For a second I think she might turn around and bolt again, but I push out the club chair next to mine with my foot. She sighs, but takes the offer, dropping into the chair.
Her eyes are puffy and so are her lips. Has she spent the last half hour locked in the bathroom crying? “Are you okay?”
“I think the answer to that question is probably obvious.” She gestures to her face, then shakes her head. Her smile is soft but strained. “Shall we just pretend I’m fine and that everything between Saturday and just now didn’t happen?”
“Sure.” I don’t want to push her to talk, but her being here and Armstrong’s absence has me curious as to what exactly happened between my putting her in that car with Ruby and now.
She fingers a sugar packet from the table, that small smile lifting fractionally. “Thank you. Again.”
I lean back in my chair, giving her space. “Anytime. I’m the king of avoidance.”
The noise she makes is somewhere between a laugh and a huff. It’s much better than tears. I can handle tears just fine, but I’d prefer to make her smile, if at all possible.
Despite the hour, she orders a bottle of champagne when the server comes around to check on our table.
“Why don’t you get something to eat with that?” I suggest before the server can leave.
She makes a face. “I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t just drink champagne.” At least I wouldn’t suggest it.
Her smile is patronizing. “Sure I can. And you’re going to watch me.”
I bite back a reply referencing what she said to me in the bridal suite, thinking it’s too early to make a joke out of it, and place another order identical to the one I just consumed, as well as a coffee refill, and a glass of orange juice for Amalie, in case she’d like to make very expensive mimosas, or simply dilute the alcohol she feels compelled to consume.
“I assume this is a business trip for you,” she says once the waiter leaves.
“It is, a bit unexpected, but not unwelcome.” I suppose one positive out of this is knowing with absolute certainty that her being here without Armstrong means he won’t have an opportunity to come up with some creative excuse for his behavior.
“Oh? Is everything okay?” Her concern is strangely genuine. Or maybe it isn’t strange, but the situation and our circumstances, along with the events from the wedding, make it that way.
“Everything’s fine.”
The right side of her mouth quirks up. “Fine is what people say when they don’t want to tell you the truth.”
“You told me you were fine earlier.”
“And I was lying, just like you are now.” She flips the sugar packet between her fingers, maybe so she has something to focus on that isn’t me.
“That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think? Why should I tell you the truth when you won’t give me the same courtesy?”
Her gaze lifts for a brief moment, her sadness almost palpable. “Because you already know the reason why I’m not fine. You were there.”
Our server interrupts, and her expression morphs into polite relief as he presents her with the bottle of champagne. At her nod, he pops the cork and pours her a sample. I decline when it’s offered to me.
He waits for her to take a sip and voice her approval before he tops up her glass and leaves us alone again. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs, her smile rueful as she takes another, more robust sip. Actually it’s more of a gulp. “So?” she asks.
“So?” I’m too busy watching her tongue drag across her lip to remember what her question is.
“Why are things fine?”
“I suppose for the same reason things are fine for you right now.”
She pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth, brow furrowed in confusion. She really is absolutely stunning, even with the puffy, slightly bloodshot eyes. “How so?”
“My date created the problem and I have an interesting history with Armstrong that may lead some to think I orchestrated what happened, so getting away from the gossip is for the best.” I take a sip of my coffee. It’s too hot and burns the roof of my mouth, but it prevents me from elaborating further.
“Are you being punished?” She seems appalled and possibly guilt-stricken at the idea.
“Not at all. My aunt likes to cause drama, as does my cousin, so I’m avoiding it.” I add a packet of sugar to my coffee. “Anyway, this trip is necessary regardless, and the timing happens to be good for avoiding additional conflict, so I’m taking a break from New York. Don’t feel too bad for me, I get to spend the next several weeks in a luxury hotel.”
I’m rewarded with a sweet little laugh. It’s pretty, but I can hear the note of bitterness tainting the sound. Amalie finishes her first glass of champagne and pours herself another. Thankfully her food arrives.
She acts as if someone dropped a dead body in front her when the waiter tries to set the plate down. “No, no, no. That’s not for me. That’s for him.”
I let the server know it’s fine. “I’ve already eaten.”
Amalie leans as far back in her chair as she can and gestures to the plate, absolutely horror-stricken. “I can’t eat this.”
“Do you have food allergies?” I hadn’t considered that as a possibility.
“No.”
“You don’t like eggs?”
“No. I mean yes, I like eggs.” She starts playing with her hair, twisting the end around her finger.
“But not hollandaise sauce?”
“Well yes, I like that, too.” She drops her hands and clasps them together.
“Are you a vegetarian? You can’t eat ham?” They served filet mignon at the wedding, so I’m doubtful this is the case.
“I can eat ham.” Her gaze drops to the meal in front of her, longing reflected in her eyes. The kind I’d like to see directed at me, in a similar scenario to the one I experienced recently, but not resulting from desperation.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“It’s not on my diet.”
I have to strain to catch her whispery voice, so I assume I’ve heard her incorrectly. “Did you say diet?”
She shrinks back, maybe because of my tone. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but seriously, Amalie has a rocking body. She’s likely the star of many male fantasies, and as much as she shouldn’t be, she’s had occasion to be the star of mine.
“Maybe diet is the wrong word.”
I slide my chair closer to hers and separate the linen napkin from the silverware. “There is no conceivable reason for you to be watching what you eat.”
“I needed to be able to fit into my dress,” she mumbles, “and I wanted to look nice out of it.”
I drape the linen over her lap. I’m right in her space. I should back off. She’s had a rough few days, I’m sure, and me flirting with her isn’t likely to make it better, but my mouth and my brain aren’t working in sync, so I say the thing I shouldn’t anyway. “I think you’re forgetting I’ve seen you out of that dress, and I stand by my original statement. There’s absolutely no need for you to watch what you eat.”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about that.” Her eyes are fixed on where I’m cutting a square out of her breakfast.
“It’s an indirect reference with the intention of making a point. Open, please.” I raise the fork, getting within an inch of her mouth before she grabs it from me.
“I can feed myself, thanks.” She glares while she chews, but her disgruntled expression doesn’t last long. Her eyes close as she swallows and moans, “Oh my God.”
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Amazing.” She plows through the rest quickly, which is good, especially if she’s planning to drink the entire bottle of champagne. It seems rather likely as it’s already half gone and she’s decided to pour another glass. She holds the bottle up with a pithy grin. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of Armstrong’s liquefied money? It’s delicious, tastes like dollar bills sliding down my throat.”
I’ve had far too much half-flat champagne recently; however, if it reduces the amount she consumes before she boards her flight, I’ll bite the bullet. She almost knocks over my glass in her attempt to pour, so I take the bottle and manage the task on my own.
There’s a lull in the conversation and she spins the flute between her fingers. “I really am sor—”
Before she can finish issuing another apology, the PA system crackles to life. “Flight six-nine-one-four to Bora Bora now boarding first-class passengers at gate thirty-seven.” The message repeats one more time and we both raise our hands to signal the waiter. Amalie does this while chugging champagne.
She sets the flute down and wipes a dribble from her chin. Her cheeks flush, maybe because of the alcohol consumption, maybe because she’s just realized what I have.
We’re on the same flight.