The Mix-Up (Southern Hearts Club #3) - Melanie Munton Page 0,72
some pretzels? This conversation is getting way the crap too real and I need out.
I slip my hand out from under his and place it safely back on my lap. “What were all the texts about, then?”
He stares at his now lonely hand, propped on the armrest between us. For seconds on end, he just looks at that space where my hand should still be. Eventually, he straightens in his seat, cracking his neck from side-to-side.
“If you wanted to know that, then you should have responded.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the window. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Not in the mood to make promises right now.”
I frown at the lack of warmth in his voice that was there just seconds ago. “While we’re at this conference—while we’re in New York—everything remains professional. This is a business trip, and it needs to stay that way.”
As I wait for his response, I hear him start clicking the keys on his laptop again. Ignoring me?
“Ryder? Are we agreed?”
“Like I said, I’m not in the mood to make any promises.”
He’s completely right. I am a child.
Because the first instinct I have after hearing those clipped words is to retaliate just as immaturely. He wants to be that way whenever I’m trying to re-establish some middle ground so we can get through the next two days without any bloodshed? Fine.
If he wants to be unreasonable, I can, too.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and stand up, but I deliberately place my hand on his thigh for support as I do so. My fingers intentionally drift a little too close to his family jewels, and boy, does he notice. His body locks up, nostrils flaring. He stares straight ahead for several beats before his eyes finally tick up to mine.
“Excuse me,” I say in a saccharine sweet voice as I loom above him. “I need to visit the lavatory.”
With blue eyes sharp enough to carve out a gaping wound in my chest, he places his laptop in my empty seat and pushes to his feet. The small step he takes into the aisle is barely enough for me to squeeze past. Our proximity forces my body to rub against his. Every inch of our fronts make contact, particularly that bulge I nearly fondled a moment ago. He’s clearly making sure I feel all of it because—
He’s hard.
As. A. Rock.
My breath hitches. He still doesn’t move. I have nowhere to look but directly into his eyes.
“You keep saying you don’t play games, Gretchen,” he breathes against my mouth. “Yet you keep trying to win them.”
I end up sitting on the lid of that tiny toilet, head in my hands, wishing I’d answered just one of his texts. Because he’s right.
I am trying to win.
And the reason I’m getting my ass kicked is because for the first time in my life, I am wildly, ridiculously out of my league.
“How could they lose my bag?” I screech in a voice that only dogs can hear. “You’d think that with all the advances in technology these days we wouldn’t have to worry about lost luggage anymore. We have cars that drive themselves, for God’s sake.”
“Did you have GPS tracking on your suitcase?” Ryder asks as he types out something on his phone.
I stare at him like he just said that Woody Harrleson isn’t one of the greatest comedic treasures of our generation. “Of course not.”
“Then shit tends to get misplaced. Not the end of the world, duchess.”
“How can you say that?” I wave down at my body. “We’re going to be here for two and a half days, and these are the only clothes I now have to wear.”
Lifting his head, he leans in close like he’s about to spill a secret. “Don’t tell anyone, but I hear they have clothing stores in New York City. Actual clothing stores, can you believe it? Keep that just between us, though, okay?”
“I don’t have time to go shopping right now.” I shove my phone in his face. “The conference panels start in thirty minutes.”
“The first one I really want to sit in on doesn’t start for another two hours. We have time.” His phone chimes with a text. “Cab’s here. Let’s go.”
I don’t move. “You’re not serious.”
After nonchalantly picking up my messenger bag and draping it over the handle of his suitcase, he not-so-gently nudges me forward. “I’m taking you shopping, Gretchen. Get over it.”