Page 16 of Match Me if You Can
I open my mouth, but before I can so much as get another word out, that vulnerable disappears and all of that ice snaps back into place.
Then she’s turning away from me, her bun still perfectly unmussed.
“Let’s go,” she snaps. “We have a flight to catch.”
SEVEN
Violet
“I don’t know,” I say, blinking up at the stewardess like I can’t process even the simplest of questions. “I need to ask my fiancé what I should drink.” I flutter my lashes a few more times, tap my bottom lip. “Goodness knows I don’t do well having to think for myself.”
Ace’s head snaps up and his eyes hit mine, murder in their depths.
Probably because the flight attendant is staring at me like I’m a moron—and then silently glancing toward Ace, lifting her brows in question.
Far too professional to comment.
Out loud anyway.
Instead, it’s just written on her face.
I wait for the explosion, for the glimpse of that angry hockey player, temper snapping, yelling commencing…fists connecting.
That’s what I expect.
It’s not what I get.
“She’ll have a champagne,” he says quietly after a moment.
I hold back my scowl.
Because he chose what I would have picked if I wasn’t playing an idiot.
“Very good, sir,” the attendant says. “And you?”
“Whisky neat.”
Blegh.
Everyone has an alcohol that makes them want to wretch.
Mine is whisky.
Because my best friend and I downed an entire bottle senior year of high school.
Then proceeded to puke it all back up.
I shudder and shove the memories from when I was wild and pushing the boundaries and trying to fit in and practically begging my father to notice me from my mind, allowing my gaze to drift back out the window. It’s all white, wispy clouds and blue sky, and…I’m bored as fuck. I want to pull out my laptop and do some work. I want to read my fucking book or watch a show on my phone.
But…Ace is an asshole.
And this flight is a power play.
For me, anyway.
After his commanding little speech on my front porch, he’s likely expecting me to fall right into line.
I will.
