“I do.”
“Good for you. That doesn’t concern me.”
“You’re my assistant, so I say it does concern you.”
“Is this work-related?”
“In a way.”
“You only have golf and a few international calls this weekend. There was no fine print about London anywhere.”
“Emergency work.”
“Then go on your own.” I pluck the iPad from his hand, breathing as harshly as a cornered animal. “And look at me when you’re talking to me.”
He slowly lifts his head, his face a blank slate of emotions. A void with no intention of ever being filled.
And the worst part is that he looks like he’s in his element, extremely handsome in his khaki trousers and a white polo shirt with his brown hair styled and his face clean-shaven.
Why was I so worried about telling him again? It’s not like he cares.
Never did and never will.
“I know your face, Nicole. No need to worship at its altar all the time.” He pauses. “If I didn’t clarify it yet, you have no choice and you’re coming with me as my assistant.”
“It’s the weekend.”
“Your point?”
“I don’t want to go to England.”
“What you want means jack shit to me. We’re going and that’s that.”
“And if I refuse?”
He tilts his head to the side. “There’s no refusal option in your job contract. Unless you quit, of course.”
“I can’t leave Jay alone.”
“Which is why he’s coming with us. The time you’ve spent moaning could’ve been spent booking our flight tickets.”
He slides the iPad from my fingers and goes back to scrolling through BBC’s website because I heard him mention once that American news outlets are unreliable.
I hate that I hoard everything he says, that I remember the first word he said to me—peaches—and every single interaction we’ve had since.
I hate that I used to search for his gift for my birthdays first. His mum chose them and it was obligatory, but I still counted them as coming from him.
Still stared at them whenever it got hard and the world closed in on me.
Especially at the one item that I’ve hidden so well.
He reaches for a glass of water at the same time as me. Our fingers brush for a second, two—
He suddenly jerks his hand away, stands up, and stalks to his room.
My hand shakes as I pick up the water and down it all. But no amount of water could douse the fire inside me.
Or the familiar feeling that’s rearing its ugly head from the past.
The fact that no matter how much I showered or scrubbed my skin clean, I’m still filthy.
Several hours later, we're on our way to London.
I avoid a panic attack by watching Jayden nearly piss himself with excitement from being on a plane for the first time—technically, second, but he doesn’t remember that trip. First class, because God forbid Daniel travel any other way.
He ignored me most of the flight, opting to have a fixation with his iPad.
Whenever Jay talks to him, however, he engages him and even smiles, dazzling the whole crew with his dimples.
So the problem is me.
I’m the one he doesn’t want to spare a glance.
The one who needlessly and embarrassingly told him everything, hoping he’d finally see my side of the story.
Not anyone else’s. Mine.
After two hours, Jay collapses into sleep, his neck lolled awkwardly. I shake my head as I maneuver him to a more comfortable position.
All while trying to ignore Daniel, who’s sitting across from me, still ignoring me.
When the attendants bring food, he flat out refuses it.
I rummage through my bag and retrieve a small sandwich I made, then place it and a lollipop on his table.
“Take them back,” he says without looking at me.
“I didn’t bring them for you. I just happened to have them, so you might as well eat.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not eating either.”
He tilts his tablet to the side to stare at me. “Did you abandon your common sense in a different time zone? Why the fuck would you starve because I’m choosing not to eat?”
“I like company when I eat.”
“The whole plane is your company.”
“I don’t know the whole plane. So if you don’t want me to starve, you might as well pick up that sandwich.”
“Whether you starve or stuff your stomach with food has zero effect on me.”
I pretend his words don’t create holes inside me as I fake a smile and act like I’m scrolling through my phone.
But I don’t eat.
Masochism is apparently one of my traits. Or maybe I’m trying to see if he really doesn’t care about me.
The wait is exactly ten minutes. With a grunt, he unwraps the sandwich and takes a big bite. He pauses, probably his nausea hitting him, but then he chews slowly and swallows.
I can’t help but grin as I grab my fork and knife.
“Wipe it off,” he growls.
“What?” I ask innocently, taking a bite of the meatballs.
“That fucking smile on your face.”
That only allows it to widen and he releases a sound, but he doesn’t say anything as he finishes the sandwich in a few more bites.
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“Then who did you do it for?”
“Myself, so I don’t have to carry you when you faint.”
“Whatever you say, Dan.”
His lips twist. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why? It disarms you?”
“More like it revolts me. That sandwich is trying to find its way out in a less glamorous way than how it went in.”
I see it then. The reason behind his cold, cutting words. It’s clear in the depth of his eyes, right below the surface, there’s a vulnerability, a weakness he’s going the extra mile to hide.
“If you say so,” I say sweetly, which clearly pisses him off. But before he can come back with his sarcastic, hurtful remarks, I change the subject. “When was the last time you went back to London?”
“Never.”
I pause eating. “Really?”
“Want a look at my travel history?”
“But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why have you never gone back?”
“England is too small for me now.”
“Bullshit.”
He lets the iPad drop on his lap and glares at me. “Getting fluent in cursing, I see.”
“I learned from the best. And you’re not changing the subject. Why have you never gone back to England?”
“I don’t like the people there. That once included you, by the way.”
I ignore his attempts to egg me on. “What about your family?”
“My last words to Mum before I left were, ‘Grow a fucking backbone, Nora.’ Dad died in an accident with his mistress of the month after I told him to go fuck himself. My brother hates me because of all of the above.”
The food gets stuck in my throat. I was completely unaware of this, but I did hear about Benedict Sterling’s death during my first year in university. His gruesome accident was all over the news.