“I’m a ghostwriter.” She nudged the edge of her backpack under the seat with a toe of her brown boot.
“A ghostwriter? What do you write?”
“Mostly nonfiction. I work with people who have lived amazing lives, gone on incredible journeys, or made incredible discoveries. But they don’t always have natural writing talent. When they work with me, I bring magic and structure to their stories.”
“It sounds like you enjoy your job,” he mused as he twisted his champagne glass by the stem.
“I do.” She looked up at him, her confidence returning. “What do you do? Oh wait, I bet I can guess.” She twisted in her seat to eye him critically and tilted her head slightly as she held her drink.
“Oh? And what am I then?” He set his glass down on his tray and crossed his arms, offering her his most charming smile, the one that made even married women consider hiding their wedding rings.
“You are…” She squinted one eye, and the adorable expression on her face almost made him laugh. “An investment banker.”
“Bravo!” He leaned toward her a little, closing the distance between them. “What gave me away?”
She rested her chin on her hand as they stared at each other, only a few inches apart. A spark traveled between them and damned if he wasn’t tempted to close the distance and kiss this stranger. He’d had sex a few times on a plane but that was only for fun when there was a thrill. And for some reason this woman, the opposite of his usual tastes, was thrilling the hell out of him. He usually dated tall leggy blondes who looked like they came right off the runway, and she was the opposite of all that.
He was completely fascinated with Brie’s soft, natural appearance and the playful relaxed way she interacted with him. There was a hint of sexual interest from her; he could see it every time her blue eyes swept down his body, but she wasn’t trying to lure him in or catch him. If anything, he sensed she was fighting to keep her distance.
“What gave you away?” she repeated softly, drawing out her explanation in a way that tantalized him. He had to admit he liked her voice. It wasn’t husky and low, nor was it high and girlish. It had hints of energetic delight, yet it was tempered by a soft sensual note. Forget writing books, the woman should narrate them.
“Yes, tell me, what revealed my job?”
“Expensive leather briefcase…” She squinted one eye again as though peering through a microscope. “Your perfectly tailored suit, that haircut—”
He reached up to drag his hands through his hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?” he demanded.
She giggled, the effects of the champagne were starting to show. “Nothing,” she replied with wide, guileless eyes that didn’t fool him one bit.
“Then what did you mean?”
She gestured vaguely at his head. “You know.”
“No, darling. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” He rather liked his hair. To think that it might be… what was he thinking? His hair was just fine.
“It has that whole overly perfect look to it,” she explained and took another drink of her champagne, emptying the flute.
“It’s not overly styled.” He took his time each morning to get the look just right. It wasn’t overdone. He was certain of that.
“It so is,” Brie asserted confidently. “You need it more like—” She leaned over, closing the distance between them and dug her hands into his hair. It was clear she was messing up his hair.
“Very funny,” he grumbled.
“I thought so.” She winked at him, but her hands didn’t leave his hair.
Fuck… Her fingers threading through his hair felt good. Too good. He tried to prevent himself from being aroused by her touch, but it wasn’t easy. She ran her fingers through his hair a few more seconds, biting her lip in a way that did not help his condition whatsoever. Maybe he should just get her into the bathroom and—
“Like that.” She pulled her hands free of his hair, but he reached out and caught her wrists before she could retreat.
“I’m almost afraid to go look,” he muttered. His hair was probably standing completely on end. Alec brushed his thumbs against the skin of her wrists before letting go.
She laughed. “You have to go look, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” He slid off the seat and went to the first-class bathroom and peered at himself in the mirror. His hair wasn’t mussed up. It was…good. It was perfectly touched up the way he liked, though it did look a little like he’d just made love to a woman and she’d been running her fingers through it. The thought gave him too many tempting ideas about Brie. He placed his hands on the counter and closed his eyes.
Think of primary school, or algebra… Anything other than what it would be like to pin Brie up against the counter and pull down those jeans she’s wearing and—
“Bloody Christ.” He drew in a dozen breaths before he regained enough control to leave the bathroom.
When Alec returned to his seat, he found dinner waiting on his tray table. Brie had poured herself another glass of champagne and was swiping through the in-flight movie selections.
Alec sat down and unrolled the silverware from his cloth napkin. “Anything good?”
“Some rom-coms, a few thrillers, and a couple of documentaries.” Brie mused as she continued to swipe through the available shows.
“You’d better eat before it gets cold.” He pushed her tray toward her.
Brie glanced his way and smiled. “You didn’t fix your hair.”
“I thought you did a fine job and didn’t want to waste your efforts,” he lied. The truth was he couldn’t stay in that bathroom without indulging in a fantasy that would lead to trouble. Trouble was the last thing he needed. Even though he enjoyed a quick hookup, he did not want to do that on a seven-hour flight, no matter how cute Brie was or how her mouth was making it very hard for him to think straight.
“So, you’re a native Londoner?” she asked as she cut into her filet.
“Not really. I grew up in the country outside of Manchester before attending Eton and Cambridge.”
“I have a question about that. Why do Cambridge and Oxford have all these colleges within the main university?” She took a bite of her filet and made a sweet little sound of pleasure. “What’s up with that?”
“Ah. No, I see your confusion. It’s not like they are separate schools,” he paused, thinking over how best to explain it. “It is more like residence halls that you would have at a University. So, if a student stays at King’s College, that would be the location of his or her room, perhaps even their dining hall for lunch and dinner. Some colleges were established with religious purposes hundreds of years ago, though the religious connections may no longer exist.”
“Okay…” She paused, seeming to think it over. “So what college were you?”
“The King’s College of Our Lady and St. Nicholas in Cambridge.” He could see he had her full attention. This woman liked history and he could bloody well deliver on that. “It was founded in 1441, but its construction was disrupted by the War of the Roses. It was finally finished in 1544 and has the world’s largest fan vaulted ceiling in its chapel. Notable alumni include Robert Walpole, the first prime minister of England, and E.M. Forster, the novelist.” He recited what he remembered from his first tour of the college all those years ago.