Next to me, Miles has gone very still. His book is open in his lap but his eyes aren't moving across the page.
I know I should just say thanks and let Kyle move on. I know that. But there's a part of me that wants to see what happens if I push it.
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, and I let my voice drop into the register I use when I'm actually flirting. "I could definitely use a local's—"
Miles's grip lands on my wrist.
He doesn't squeeze. He just puts his fingers there, on the inside of my wrist where my pulse is hammering. I lose the rest of my sentence. I'm not even sure what I was saying. All I can feel is the press of Miles's fingertips against my skin, cool and deliberate.
"We have an early morning tomorrow," Miles says to Kyle. His voice is perfectly polite. His fingers don't move. "Could we get some water when you have a chance?"
It's nothing. It's a completely professional sentence from a completely professional man. But he's still holding my wrist, and Kyle looks down at that, and then looks at me, and something shifts in his expression.
"Sure thing," Kyle says, easy and unbothered. "I'll bring that right over." He gives me a quick, knowing smile—no hard feelings—and moves on down the aisle.
Miles pulls away like he's been burned.
I stare at the seat in front of me. My wrist feels hot where he touched me. My dick is half-hard. I'm not breathing right.
Miles picks up his book. Opens it to a random page. His face is completely neutral, but the flush is creeping up his neck, and the fingers that were just on my wrist are gripping the book with enough force to bend the cover.
"So," I say. My voice sounds weird to me. "That just happened."
"Nothing happened." His voice is flat. "I reminded the flight attendant that he has a job to do."
"Right. By grabbing me."
"I didn't grab you. Don't be dramatic."
"You put your hand on my wrist while I was talking to another guy. What do you call that?"
"Garcia." He turns and looks at me, and his eyes are ice. "Drop it."
I should drop it. I know I should. Miles is giving me the look that makes grown men apologize for existing. But I've never been good at leaving things alone, and I don't want to drop it. I want to pull on this thread until the whole thing unravels.
"You were jealous," I say.
"I was professional."
"Bullshit."
His jaw tightens. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. That wasn't professional, that was jealous. You didn't want him talking to me and you shut it down."
"I shut it down because we're on a work trip and you were acting like you're at a bar on a Friday night." His voice drops,sharp and cold. "You flirt with everything that moves. It's embarrassing."
"Yeah, I do flirt with everyone. That's never bothered you before."
"It's always bothered me."
The words come out fast, like he didn't mean to say them. His mouth snaps shut. The flush on his neck darkens.
"It's always bothered you," I repeat, slowly.
"That's not what I—" He stops. Takes a breath. "Your behavior reflects on me and on the firm. That's all I meant."
"That's not what you meant."