Page 12 of Not Safe for Work

A few moments later, Rafe returns with a fresh glass for me and a beer for himself. He’s also acquired a small ceramic plate with a few miniature desserts—I already devoured several before he arrived. I watch him pick up a tiny lemon tart and pop it into his mouth before he grimaces.

“Problem?” I ask.

He drops the plate on the table like it’s personally offended him and wipes his hands. “Tastes a bit like cardboard.”

“Oh,” I say because I thought it tasted fine. I didn’t realize Rafe Gallagher had such a picky palate. He goes for his beer, taking a long swallow, and I give him a pointed look when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Someone told me we’re on London time,” he responds, and I huff out an unexpected snort. I cover my mouth, my cheeks flushing at the undignified sound. The corner of Rafe’s lips twitch, almost like he’s clamping down on a smile.

It catches me entirely off guard.

Rafe smiles a lot. He smiles at his friends and his coworkers. He smiles at his girlfriend and his assistant. He smiles at the Khakis and Belinda. At Molly and Brian and Charles. Even at his dad, who I get the sense he doesn’t like very much.

But Rafe Gallagher never, ever smiles at me.

He’s beautiful when he smiles. I can see that. He’s got straight white teeth and a dimple that pops in the corner of his cheek. His brown eyes turn bright, like the color of warm sunshine reflecting through syrup. He’s the guy who shakes hands and makes everyone feel like the most important person in the room. He’s so magnetic, he’s the North Pole.

And I could blame it on our combative relationship, but he’s that way even with people I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like.

That single moment of suppressed amusement might be the closest he’s come to smiling at me in a very long time, and it fires a weird, twisty feeling in my stomach that I don’t like one bit.

I stare at him for a second too long and then blink, turning away.

While we wait for our plane to board, we don’t say much else. Rafe scrolls on his phone while I try to read and pretend he isn’t there.

Finally, it’s time to leave, and we find ourselves on the plane.

Not only did Belinda book Rafe in first class with me, but she also booked our seats together. She’s getting a strongly worded email as soon as I connect my laptop at the hotel.

“I want the window,” I demand as Rafe shoves his bag in the overhead bin.

He gives me a one-shouldered shrug as if it doesn’t make the slightest difference. It doesn’t to me either—I don’t care about the window seat—but needling each other is what we’ve always been good at. With a nod, I slide into the row and plunk down, wiggling my butt deep into the plush leather.

“Comfortable?” Rafe asks as he sits.

“Very,” I say, stretching my legs out and crossing my ankles, admiring my toes manicured in Strawberry Margarita. Rafe settles in his spot, his long legs offering him less freedom to move around, even with the added cabin space. What is he? Six-three? Six-four?

“What?” he asks, and apparently, I’ve been staring. I need to stop this. In theory, anyone would be drawn to Rafe, assuming you’re into that whole “looks just like Henry Cavill if he was ten years younger” thing.

A flight attendant with golden blond hair tied into a smooth knot arrives, holding a tray lined with stubby plastic water bottles. We help ourselves as she asks, “Can I get you a drink? Mimosa? Or—”

“Yes, please,” I say before she can finish.

“Make it two,” Rafe says, flashing her a smile that inexplicably fills my lungs with puffs of green. She gives him an appreciative once-over before she nods and turns away. See? I’m not the only one who finds him attractive.

“Won’t you be a little warm dressed like that?” I ask after our drinks have been served, and we wait for the plane to take off. He looks down at himself and then back up at me.

“I’ll be fine,” he says.

“Not really a flower shirt and shorts kind of guy?”

“Why are you so worried about what I’m wearing?”

“I’m not. You just look hot in that.” My cheeks burst into flames as I realize what I’ve said. “I mean jeans and long sleeves. It’s going to be more than eighty degrees in Maui, and with the humidity, it’ll be stifling…” I can’t stop babbling as I try to cover up my Freudian slip, and Rafe’s mouth curls into a smirk.

A smirk. I guess that’s the closest to a smile I ever get.

“Oh, never mind.” I sit back and fold my arms, staring out the window as the plane starts to move.