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 eventhat’shot, 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 aCYYoung 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 lastcontract 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 doinghere,in the last row of a regional commercial jet.”
“What can I say? I’m . . . eccentric.”
“You’resomething,” I shoot back, but he just smiles, this time giving the megawatt grin that made hearts flutter every day back inLA, and shrugs helplessly.
“Did you know that most professional athletes end up bankrupt after they retire?”
