Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Not much is worse than being stuck next to Hudson for the flight. A flight with turbulence would make it worse.
The seats aren’t too cramped, so at least I have that going for me, but the thing is, Hudson is larger than life.
His presence suffocates in the worst and most distracting way possible.
Cramped seats? Annoying. But even a few hours squeezed into a tiny airplane seat, elbow to elbow with my archnemesis? Still too much. This has to be my personal hell.
Now that the plane is at a cruising altitude, I settle into my seat.
From the corner of my eye, I see Hudson recline his. He doesn’t go all the way, which surprises me. He goes just far enough back to be comfortable but not far enough to bother whichever of his teammates sits behind him.
It’s a small thing, barely worth noticing, but it feels intentional. Thoughtful, even. It throws me off.
It’s oddly sweet. Although I don’t want to admit that.
I move my body again. I’m not one to lean back, but I’m not comfortable.
My back is on fire. It feels stiff, and my nerves are frayed.
And why won’t the tension in my shoulders go away?
I’m really a mess. Maybe I’ll do what he did. Recline my seat just a little bit.
I reach my hand out and press the button, the back of my seat moving a few inches before I stop.
“Are you inspired by me?”
“Um, no,” I murmur.
The words come out clipped and way too defensive. Why do I always feel like I’ve walked right into a trap whenever I talk to him?
“Then why did you move your seat like mine?” he says, trying to bite back a smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, sorry, are you the only person allowed to recline?”
“No, but I’m the only one to do the half recline.” He points around the plane. “Most are full recline or no recline.” I want to knock the smug look off his face. He’s impossible. He’s acting like he invented the concept of reclining.
I try to tune him out, distracting myself by looking at pictures on my phone. My lips spread as I see a picture of Josie and Dane.
“They’re cute.” I hear from beside me.
I nod. “They are.”
“Do you think you’ll keep working for him?”
I turn to face Hudson, my brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I just figured—”
“That Josie would handle it? Hardly.”
“No. I just thought—”
“And herein lies the problem, Wilde, you thought.”
His jaw stiffens, and my stomach tightens. Why do I always do this? Speak first, think later.
It’s like I have no control over myself. A reflex.
Maybe I went too far. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so mean to him.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out my Kindle and try to focus on the book I’ve been reading, but the harder I try to read, the more hyperaware I am of the fact that he’s placed his arm on the armrest between us.
Despite trying not to think about it, I can’t stop.
A part of me wonders if he’ll touch me.
The thought shouldn’t even cross my mind. It’s a ridiculous thought.
Yet . . .
My heart pounds heavily in my chest.
Do I want him to?
No.
I don’t.
I should move my arm, right? From the corner of my eye, I peek over at him. While I might be freaking out, he seems calm and collected.
Serene.
Bastard.
How am I so affected by him, yet he isn’t bothered?
As if he can hear my thoughts, he opens his eyes and catches me staring. Of course, he does.
Again, cosmic joke. I’m the hex, after all.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, you’re staring.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not. I’m reading.” I lift my Kindle in the air as if to say “see.”
His eyes narrow as he looks from my Kindle to my eyes.
“And what are you reading?”
I blink, snapping my gaze back to my book. Shit. What am I reading again? My brain goes blank. Probably because of him. No, it can’t be that. It’s probably because it’s been weeks since I opened this thing. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time. Yeah, that’s the reason. Not his proximity. “Oh. Um, it’s a mystery novel.”
Hudson raises an eyebrow. “Really? For some reason, I don’t believe you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I see you with something lighter. You seem like a hopeless romantic.”
My mouth drops open, and he laughs. “Really?”
“Nah, Hex. You probably don’t have a romantic bone in your body.” His words hurt. They shouldn’t. I know they shouldn’t, but they do. I don’t let on, though.
Instead, I try to think about a witty rebuttal when an announcement begins to crackle overhead.
Something about turbulence.
I instinctively tighten my grip on the armrest. Flying is on my list of things I don’t love. Which, I guess, in the grand scheme of things that I’m scared of, would be considered a good thing, but still, when I’m up in the air and the plane starts to bump, I forget this isn’t one of my fears.