Page 10 of Crash Course
Naked.
And her hands roaming all over him.
Oooh, bad girl, Cilla.
He gobbled up the last of his coleslaw, set the container down, and slid a wipe over his hands and mouth. "People tell me I'm funny all the time. Sometimes, it’s not a compliment. Like when I forget to filter and just say shit people don’t know how to respond to."
How she understood his plight. "That happens to me, too. Leaves you wondering if they’re throwing shade."
"Yes! See, we’re perfect for each other. I seriously hate that you won’t go out with me. We’d have fun."
Cilla was starting to think the same thing. And when was the last time she’d actually been able to say that about a man? She’d dated plenty of nice, successful men any woman would be thrilled to have by their side. Yet . . . nah. Always something missing. That spark she couldn’t quite define but knew she hadn’t yet experienced.
Dating in the last couple of years had become routine.
Like window-shopping.
Something she did simply because she was hoping she’d discover someone special who gave her pleasure. So many of her friends and acquaintances had already settled into marriage and babies, something Cilla definitely saw herself experiencing, but at the age of thirty-five, it had eluded her.
She craved it. Not love, but . . . passion. A yearning that made her think about someone all day. That’s what she wanted.
Her watch buzzed. A text from her assistant. She’d respond once she got on the plane.
"I have a murder case I’m prepping for," she told Cruz. "No time for a social life right now."
He studied her with those haunting blue-gray eyes. Add the curly hair blowing in the light wind and his close-cropped beard and all she wanted was to touch him. Experience him.
"Okay," he said. "Do you want me to give up? Or wait?"
Oh, this man. She let out a sigh. "That’s not fair to you. You’re an attractive, single guy."
He flashed a smile. "I’m also not stupid. If you’re busy, I’ll wait."
"Good. Because I like you." She picked up her plate and tossed it in the bag their food came in. "And that, Cruz Blackwell, doesn’t happen very often."
3
Cilla boardedthe plane and dropped her briefcase and purse on her usual seat just as a flash of movement outside drifted into her peripheral vision. She leaned over, peering out the window of the opposite seat. Outside, Cruz stood in front of the wing and the bright white of his shirt accentuated his mane of dark, curly hair. Cilla let out a sigh.
Total stud, this guy.
And nice.
Smart, too.
She might have to sleep with him.
Enjoying the view, she slid into the seat for a second. Why not? Busy doing his preflight check, he paid no attention to her or her nose pushed against the glass.
Before he boarded the plane, she’d hop back to her usual seat across the aisle. Not that it made a difference, since the seats were the same, but she liked the other side. Her spot. And she was a creature of habit.
When Cruz moved out of sight, she faced front, ready to change seats, but spotted something in the seatback. A folder. Dad or one of the executives who typically used the plane must have left it.
She slid the plain manila folder out. Who knew what it contained and she didn’t want to leave it. She’d take it with her and get it back to whomever it belonged to.
Flipping it open, she found a half-inch-thick stack of papers. No employee names were listed, but the subject line on the top sheet, the one that claimed it was a toxicology report, drew her attention. She didn’t take part in the day-to-day legal wranglings of Dad’s company, but he often sought her counsel on legal matters.
Ignoring the giant red "Confidential" stamp at the top—she probably knew more about Randolph Industries than ninety percent of its executives—Cilla perused the first page.
