His mouth does that twitch again — the almost-smile he won't let happen — and I'm going to be thinking about it for the rest of the day. We get through security without incident, unless you count the TSA agent who made Miles take off his watch and belt and shoes and the little noise of irritation Miles made that I found way more attractive than a person should find anything that happens at airport security.
We're at the gate for about thirty minutes before boarding starts. Miles sits with his laptop open, already working, because the man doesn't have an off switch. I sit next to him and eat a breakfast sandwich and try not to watch him type. He types fast. His fingers are precise on the keyboard, and his brow furrows when he's concentrating, and I think about those fingers doing other things, and then I shove the rest of the sandwich in my mouth.
"You have mustard on your face," Miles says without looking up.
"Thanks."
"Other side."
I wipe the other cheek. He glances over, and his eyes do a quick sweep of my face that lasts about half a second and makes my skin warm. "Got it," he confirms, and goes back to his screen.
We board in business class, which is nicer than anything I've ever flown, and I'm pretty sure Miles requested the upgrade because the idea of being in coach for six hours would physically pain him. Our seats are together, with a shared armrest between us. The space is comfortable by airplane standards, which means my shoulder is basically touching his at all times.
He settles in with his book—something thick and legal-looking that he definitely packed to avoid talking to me. I try to get comfortable, adjust my seatbelt, look out the window. The plane starts taxiing and Miles turns a page.
He smells different here. At the office there's always the air purifier and the coffee and the general smell of the building between us. But here, sealed in together with nowhere for it to go, his scent is right there. The suppressants are doing their job, mostly, but I'm getting more of him than I've ever gotten before, and I can't stop breathing it in. My whole body is paying attention in a way that is going to be a problem if I don't get it under control.
I shift in my seat and try to think about literally anything other than how good my boss smells.
"Stop fidgeting," Miles says.
"I'm not fidgeting. I'm getting comfortable."
"You keep adjusting your seatbelt."
"It's a weird seatbelt."
He sighs and turns a page, and I catch the edge of a smile he doesn't want me to see. Outside the office, without the fluorescent lights and the desk and the weight of the entire firm between us, he's different. Softer isn't the right word—Miles is never soft. But there's less armor. The edges are there but they'renot pointed at me for once, and I keep wanting to lean closer, which is a bad idea for a lot of reasons.
I don't lean closer. I look out the window and watch the clouds and remind myself that I'm on a work trip with my boss and this is professional and I need to keep my shit together.
We fly in mostly-silence for about an hour. Miles reads. I watch a movie on my phone with one earbud in. It's almost peaceful, except for the part where I'm aware of every single time his arm moves on the armrest, and the part where he fell asleep for about ten minutes and his head drifted toward my shoulder before he snapped awake and straightened up without acknowledging it. I acknowledged it. Internally. Extensively.
Then the flight attendant starts making his rounds with the drink cart. He's our age, maybe a little older, with dark hair and a friendly face, and he's good at his job—smiling, making small talk, remembering who asked for what. He gets to our row and leans down.
"Can I get you two anything?"
"Water," Miles says, not looking up from his book.
"I'll take a coffee," I say. "With creamer, if you've got it."
"Sure thing." The flight attendant—his name tag says Kyle—pours the coffee and sets it on my tray, and his fingers brush mine when he passes the cup. "There you go." He holds eye contact a beat longer than necessary and smiles. He's got a nice smile. Good jawline. The kind of easy, confident energy that I recognize because I have it too. "Let me know if you need anything else."
"Will do. Thanks, man." I smile back, and Kyle moves on down the aisle.
Miles turns a page of his book. Then turns it back. Then turns it forward again.
I drink my coffee. A while later, Kyle comes back through, collecting cups. He stops at our row again.
"How's the coffee?" he asks, and he's looking at me, not Miles.
"It was great, actually. Better than what I make at home."
"That's a low bar. Airline coffee is nobody's best." He grins, then his eyes dip down to Miles's book. "You headed out to that fancy resort for a conference?"
"Yeah. My first time. You been?"
"I've done this route a bunch. The resort's gorgeous. Great bar, too, if you're looking for something to do after the panels." He says it casually, but the implication is there, and I'd have to be dead not to pick up on it.