Landing the Air Marshal (Snowpocalypse) (2 page)

She set her mouth in a wry smirk, making sure to raise her brows, too, and said, “That line work on most women?” She knew the type. She dealt with them every day on set. So she shouldn’t even bat an eye with Mr. Gouda.

His smile widened. “I don’t know. First time someone’s ever grabbed onto me during a flight.”

Right. Because only crazy people manhandled strangers. She inwardly groaned at how awkward she’d become in the last few minutes. Good riddance poised control, hello awkward-teen self. Slap on some braces and a boom box, and the transformation would be complete.

Since when do you, Abby Winters, get flustered?

She shifted in her seat at this. The thought unnerved her. Because the answer was
never
. She never got flustered, not in board meetings when she had conflicting views with the producer, or even when she had to talk to the CEO of Yellow Raft.
Where was the quick wit, the snarky retort? Left on the tarmac of LAX, presumably. Between the flight anxiety and the damn crack pheromones, her defenses had been stripped. And she did not like this one bit.

“What’s your name?” His voice had a slight southern drawl, one that made her stomach clench.

Back in high school, she’d been all about lists—apparently, her need for organization started at a young age. She’d ranked her top places to travel. Perfect jobs. Even one for all the attributes required in a future spouse. Accent definitely wasn’t on the list, but maybe she needed to reassess that one.

“Abby.”

“Gage.” He stuck out his hand and she took it, her small hand engulfed in his large, callused one. She didn’t fail to notice the lack of wedding ring, and the fact that his nails were nicely trimmed. Or the fact that she was still holding his hand a few beats past socially acceptable. Whoops.

She retracted her hand and fumbled with her seat belt. “Er—um, thank you.” Okay, seriously, what was getting into her? If she could form coherent sentences around A-list celebrities, talking to a random complete stranger shouldn’t be that hard to do. This must be the flight anxiety. Yes, definitely flight anxiety. This was all because of the damn plane, not because she was sitting next to a guy with bedroom eyes and a chin that could cut glass.

She stole a glance his way. The prickles running down her spine could definitely be due to the sheer size of the guy. Even seated, it was evident he easily cleared six feet and could probably bench a Honda. Yes, that had to be it. In fact, it’d be smart to just stop looking at him altogether. And, if anything, Abby still had her wits, even if her brain was momentarily scrambled from takeoff.

She cleared her throat and looked down at his large hand cupped over his thigh. Those callused hands would pluck pleasure straight from her core if they molded against her breasts. On cue, her nipples hardened against the silk fabric of her shirt. Well, shit, apparently her body was not on board with this whole ignoring him thing.

Working eighty-hour weeks did zilch for her sex drive, but this man had amped it up to eleven within minutes.

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Abby. Glad my arm could be of service to you today.” He smirked and,
oh,
did she want to slap the smugness right off his face.

“I don’t do that often.” She paused and cringed. “Okay, maybe I should page the flight attendant so we can drink away this awkwardness.”

He waved off her offer. “I don’t drink on planes, but thanks.”

What the hell was wrong with this dude? Intoxicated was the
only
state she wanted
to be in when stuck in a metal contraption at thirty-six thousand feet.

“Business or pleasure?” The word
pleasure
in that deep, gravelly voice practically made her toes curl.

Abby choked on her spit, and heat climbed up her cheeks until the skin beneath her eyes was burning. Was he a mind reader? If her thoughts were that transparent, she needed to schedule time on her calendar to work on that. “Excuse me?”

His lips twitched in amusement. “Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”

Oh.
It was a polite question. Of course, he’d
been nothing but gentlemanly. She was the one who had all these
very
unwanted pervy thoughts.

Okay, maybe they weren’t necessarily unwanted, but definitely not timely. She needed to focus on the penthouse she’d be visiting in five hours.
Yep, okay brain, go ahead and power down this unscheduled turned-on-ness
and pick up the hint that this guy was just being polite
. He was probably trying to make small talk in order to avoid being stabbed with an airline utensil by the crazy woman who screamed in his ear and grabbed the shit out of his arm. God, it sounded insane when she put it that way.

“Business. Going to check out a penthouse for the night, and then I get to relive plane purgatory all over again.” Lord help her.

“Wow. Penthouse. What type of business are you in, the mafia?” He raised his brows and swiped his thumb across his jaw.

She laughed, and their gazes met again. He rubbed his lips together, the edges around his mouth fading to a faint pink, and she couldn’t help but run her tongue over her bottom lip in response. They looked soft. Really soft. Kissably soft. Since turbulence had let up a bit, she couldn’t even blame the drumroll in her stomach on that. She could have sworn she saw a flicker of desire in his eyes, but chalked it up to being part of the whole dark, handsome, bend-me-over-the-seat-tray package.

Okay, it was time for her brain to shut off—or in her case, maybe reboot, because there was zero chance an airline hookup was going to happen. She’d already put her crazy on full display. Plus, airplanes carried MRSA, for crying out loud. Totally not sexy.

“Close. I work for a production studio. I’m a set scout. What about you?”

“I work in security. Private sector.” He flinched after he’d said the second part. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to tell her that? It was cryptic, nonetheless.

She didn’t even know what “private sector” meant exactly. She’d heard it in crime shows on television, but that was always for hitmen, top-secret government agencies, and rent-a-cops. But just one look at him, and he was decidedly too seasoned to be a mall cop. FBI? CIA? Whatever he was, he’d fill out a uniform nicely.

Yum. Uniforms. Ever since she’d binge-watched
Blue Bloods
, she’d had this silly fantasy of a cop busting out his handcuffs on her. Completely the opposite of what she’d normally want. But a man who risked his life for the safety of others did all the things to the space between her thighs. It almost erased the mortification of grabbing onto him from her mind.

In fact, now she wondered why he’d sat next to her in the first place. “Wait. Does that mean you’re profiling me?”

“Pretty young brunettes afraid of flying don’t typically fit a security risk profile. Should I be worried?”

A little thrill shot through her. He’d said she was pretty. Okay, maybe it was only implied. But still, she’d take it. She sure as heck didn’t need a man’s approval, but damned if it didn’t feel good to hear it every once in a while.

She knew what some of the production crew said behind her back. The terms “uptight” and “colder than a witch’s tit” may have been thrown around a few times. Those snide comments in the break room cut deeper than she cared to admit—not that she let her coworkers know it. So, hell yeah, it was a breath of fresh air to be talking to someone who didn’t know her planner addiction cost her more than her grocery budget for the month. Two words: washi tape.

In fact, she could be anyone she wanted to be, and he would be none the wiser. That thought kicked her heart rate up a few notches. Chances were at a steady zero percent that she’d ever see this guy again, so why not take a risk and loosen up for a few hours?

She sank back in her seat, trying to come up with a good response, one that said
I’m not trying too hard, but I’m witty.

Ugh, this was ridiculous. Analyzing every frickin’ move was what got her this whole Sahara Desert sex life in the first place.
Stop overthinking and get your big girl panties on.
She’d never met a man in uniform in person, besides the Beverly Hills cop that issued her a speeding ticket, and flight phobia be damned, she was going to muster up the courage to flirt with him, because when the opportunity arose to hit on a man who served his country, you took it. “Shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Looks can be deceiving, you know.”

Admittedly, in terms of retorts, this was a little on the lame side, but not awful enough to elicit an eye roll. And it was much better than the caveman talk going through her head at the moment—
must get closer to delicious hot man.

He took a long perusal, starting at her eyes and slowly working his way down to her hips. “Yes, they can be.”

He cleared his throat and reluctantly tore his gaze from her body, clearly conflicted. With what, she didn’t know. “I’m off duty right now, and so is any profiling.”

“Good to know. Because I can do some real damage with a nail file. Don’t even start me on the dangers of tweezers.”
Much better.
Finally, she was back to her witty self. All it took was the thought of him in a cop uniform, ripping off her shirt, buttons from her blouse flying, to give her the extra push.

His brows rose. “You’re just asking for trouble, aren’t you?” The playfulness in his tone said he was kidding, but the heat in his gaze hinted that he might perform a strip search for fun.

If she said yes, would he whip out some secretly stashed handcuffs? There would be absolutely no objection on her end.

“Yeah—” The plane rocketed through a bad bout of turbulence, and Abby’s arms went flying again. She went to clamp down on the armrest and missed by a good six inches, and instead grabbed the inside of Gage’s leg. And her fingers brushed against something that was definitely
not
his leg.

Abby quickly pulled her hand away, scooting as far against the window as possible. She pressed herself up against the cold plastic, the noise of the plane as it rocketed through the turbulence now deafening. She couldn’t even
look
at him after what she just did. Sweet baby Jesus, she just touched his dick. Could that even be classified as a dick, or maybe a Maglite? She should definitely not be thinking about his cock.

Think about work.

Yes, work. The reason she was on this plane in the first place. She needed to focus on the penthouse. With the extra-fluffy white duvet she’d asked to be put on the master bed. A bed that deserved the presence of the anaconda this guy was smuggling in his pants. One look at Gage and she knew he’d laugh her off the face of the planet if he saw her perfectly scheduled sex life—she couldn’t be the only person that did that, right? In fact, right now, she couldn’t even remember why she made that list in the first place, because she’d be willing to bend a few rules just this once for a chance with this sexy stranger.

Gage cleared his throat and crossed an ankle over his knee, scooting farther away from her, his body language completely closed off now. How did she know? Because she was still
staring at his crotch
 
like a
 
bona fide
 
creeper.

“Maybe I underestimated you. It’s not too late to do a frisk.” His lips quirked into a conspiratorial smile.

Her eyes widened, and she choked on her own spit. Real smooth. “Excuse me?”

A booming laugh that vibrated straight through her ribs sounded from Gage. He said, “I’m kidding.” He lifted a brow as his gaze followed Abby’s down to where she’d been honed in like the Eye of Sauron.
“So you’re heading to New York City?”
he asked.

Did someone say head? That must be why she had the sudden urge to complete this whole man-in-uniform fantasy and drop to her knees to find out what this guy was packing in his pressed pants. Maybe he’d even read her the Miranda rights as she went to town on him. Okay, she was officially sick and maybe should stop watching cop shows.

She needed to slam the brakes on that thought process.
Since when did she ever want to give head? Uh, since she laid eyes—and hands—on this Gandy-size bulge that she was
 
still
 
staring at. “Yes.”

She inwardly groaned at how awkward she’d just made this whole situation with this complete gentleman.
 He was being polite, taking the crazy woman’s mind off the flight, and here she was, lusting after him like some high schooler with a freaking crush on her teacher.

Seriously, were the five hours of air travel hell over yet?
 Then she could get off this godforsaken plane and forget about this guy who scrambled her brainwaves. But all she could seem to think about were those rough hands ripping off her panties, working their way all over her body. No guy had ever teased this type of response out of her before
,
piercing through her immaculate
armor…and she wasn’t about to start letting one now, especially not this guy, who was clearly not interested.

Plus, it was the running office joke that people in relationships, in any capacity, got soft. Miranda, the old set scout, got married, had kids, and where was her career? In the same place she dumped the contents of those cloth diapers she touted on Facebook. No thank you. With two major scouting trips in the next month, and the chance at a promotion in the near future, avoiding any kind of distraction was vital.