Page 12

“Yeah, I did,” he says, yanking his seatbelt on, shifting against the straight back of the seat before crossing his arms over his chest and letting his eyes fall shut. “Wake me when we land.”

“Will do.”

As soon as we take off, I pull my laptop out and get to work.

Charlie’s deep even breathing is as constant as the absolute leaf-blower snores emanating from the drunk guy he gave up his seat to.

Every now and then the man jerks awake and disappears into the bathroom, where the sliding pocket door does absolutely nothing to disguise the noises he makes in there.

Somewhere over South Dakota – according to the flight tracker on the seat back – our row buddy tosses himself back into his seat, his elbow jutting hard and fast into Charlie’s side. It jostles him, not enough to wake him up, not entirely, but enough to have him shift with a light groan.

His arms unfold and his shoulders slump before his head slides down against the back wall at what has to be a terrible angle.

He must realize it, even in his sleep, because he shifts his body until he’s curled almost entirely to one side and his head lands gently on my shoulder.

Or rather his chin does, his forehead cushioned lightly in my hair, his nose nudging at the sensitive spot just below my ear.

His contented exhale sends a soft breath against my skin, his lips nearly grazing my neck. A gentle quaking shiver slides through my body, radiating down to the tips of my toes and back up again before settling in a swirling rush of heat deep inside of me.

I let out a shaky breath, biting hard into my bottom lip to hold back a moan as he buries his face into the curve of my shoulder and rasps out a gravely “Francesca” into my overheated skin.

No one calls me that.

I haven’t gone by Francesca since the nuns in elementary school insisted on using my full name. It was so infuriating.

It’s still infuriating, but this is a different kind all together.

It’s infuriatingly hot.

Trying desperately to get some relief, I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly, but then his mouth moves again, his lips brushing my pulse point and it’s all I can do to keep a sharp keen from echoing at the back of my throat.

I grip the edge of my tray table as my thighs unconsciously rub together beneath the soft but constraining material of my skirt. It’s not enough.

I would probably be able to hold it together if I didn’t already know what it feels like to have his lips pressed against mine, to know just how his tongue would nudge against my lower lip to ask permission, to already understand just how thoroughly his mouth would set the rest of my body alight, stoking a passion that’s been missing in my life for far too long.

Then, with annoyingly perfect timing, our friend in the aisle seat reaffirms his calling as a landscaping crew sound machine and the burst of noise is enough to jolt Charlie awake.

“Shit,” he groans and even that’s hot, because his voice is still rough with sleep, but he moves away almost instantly. “Sorry. You should have just elbowed me. It’s what my ex used to do when I got too clingy.”

He says it all in a mumbled whisper and I have no idea if he even meant to say any of it. Probably not. He’s still half asleep, but it takes everything in me not to call his ex a complete idiot. Who the hell elbows away a man who can make you feel like this?

I don’t even particularly like him and I didn’t have it in me.

Actually, maybe I should call her and ask for some tips.

Charlie shakes his head and then rakes a hand through his shaggy hair and, in the dim glow of the reading light above us, I catch a few silvers threaded through the light brown. He’s not even forty, but somehow they suit him.

“What?” he asks, and I realize I must have stared for a moment too long.

“Did you get your beauty sleep?” I say, and it works, as he sends me a light eye roll.

“Never pass up a meal or a chance to sleep,” he counters.

“Fair enough.”

“What are you working on?”

“An offer for Quicke based on Stew’s notes.”

“And what are we offering him?”

I shift my laptop so he can see my screen and his eyes flicker over what I’ve put together.

It’s four years, with a vesting option for a fifth year if he pitches more than two hundred innings in the final year.

A couple of bonuses for innings thresholds beyond that, one for a CY Young award, but I doubt he’ll get to that level again, post-season contributions, etc.

Also, we axe the no trade clause from his last contract.

Twenty-two million average annual value.

He lets out a low whistle at the number and I turn to him, one eyebrow raised. I know exactly how much he got paid for his last contract and it was nearly double what I plan on presenting to Quicke.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, it’s something. I can tell.”

“Just . . .” I trail off, hesitating. “I’m still not sure what you’re doing here.”

“Like I said . . . “

“No, I get why you’re coming to Montana, but what are you doing here, in the last row of a regional commercial jet.”

“What can I say? I’m . . . eccentric.”

“You’re something ,” I shoot back, but he just smiles, this time giving the megawatt grin that made hearts flutter every day back in LA , and shrugs helplessly.

“Did you know that most professional athletes end up bankrupt after they retire?”

“I did, actually.”

“I swore to my parents that if I skipped college to go pro out of high school that I would be smart with money.”

“And you kept your word.”

“I did. So, when I’m flying, I mostly fly coach, business class if it’s a long flight.” He gestures to his long legs. “When I’m looking for a place in a new city, I stay with friends instead of a hotel.”

“And when you retire, you come back a year later as a manager.”

“That isn’t so much about the money.”

“Then what?”

But before he can answer, an absolutely wretched noise comes from the end of our row as the Montana bro vomits all over himself.

The flight attendants are sympathetic and bring wipes and some air freshener, but there isn’t much to be done except wait it out and try not to breathe too deeply.

The first burst of fresh air when we deplane in the spacious Bozeman airport, with its vaulted ceilings lined with wooden beams, is more than welcome.

The views of the mountains in the distance as soon as we make it outside is such a stark contrast to being outside arrivals at JFK that I can’t help but laugh.

Gregory, as usual, can be counted on. There’s a driver waiting for us near baggage claim and he already knows to take us straight to the Kimpton Armory Hotel.

“Best hotel in Bozeman,” the driver says, not seeming to recognize either of us. “You two in town for the game?”

“Of course,” Charlie says. “Go Cats Go!”

I blink at him, wondering what the hell he’s talking about when the driver laughs.

“I’d say what I usually say about the Grizz, but there’s a lady present.”

Charlie laughs with him. “Oh, she’s heard worse.”

“Just about fifteen minutes out. Any stops along the way?”

“No, straight to the hotel, thanks,” I chime in, a little more annoyed than I probably should be at being left out of the conversation.

The ride is as quick as the driver promised and the hotel driveway is bustling. I see several of the people from our flight, though thankfully not a particular row mate. I turn back to tip our driver, but Charlie’s already sliding the man a hundred-dollar bill.

“I thought you promised your parents you’d be smart with money?” I ask, but he just grins and shrugs as we take our bags and head inside the hotel. It sits large and majestic on what is otherwise a pretty nondescript street in the middle of an unremarkable neighborhood.

The air might be fresh, but the city itself doesn’t do much for me.

There’s a short line to check in and, when we get to the desk, a woman about my height with a bright white smile usually seen on the streets of Los Angeles greets us.

“Welcome to the Kimpton Armory Hotel, Bozeman,” she says, through the grin, and though I’m the one standing in front of her, she directs the words to Charlie.

“Thank you,” I say, leaning into her line of sight. “We’re checking in. Two rooms, and should be under Sullivan, Francesca.”

She clicks at her computer for a moment and then another. “There’s just one room under Sullivan, ma’am. Could the other room be under a different name?”

Her voice is hopeful and I have to contain a snort. “Charles Avery?” I say, failing to keep her attention on me as Charlie steps up and shows me his phone.

It’s a text from Gregory.

—Was only able to secure one room. The hotel is booked solid. Sorry!

“It’s just the one room,” Charlie says, as I let out a heavy sigh.

“Can you check and see if there are any other rooms that have become available? I’d really appreciate it.”

The woman, Kayla on her name tag, looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head, but she checks and then shakes her head.

“I’m sorry. There’s just the one room. How many keys will you need?”

“Two’s perfect, Kayla. Thank you,” Charlie says.

In the middle of nowhere Montana with Charlie Avery surrounded by literally thousands of people about to be punch drunk about their state’s biggest college football rivalry and there’s only one room at the inn.

Great. That’s just great.