Page 12 of Crash Course
"Don’t apologize. As long as you’re good."
She hit him with another pasted-on smile. "I’m fine. Glad to be home."
More fake cheer. Excellent. It didn’t take a genius——his 144 IQ put him close——to know talking would be a waste of energy.
When she fired up her phone, he took that as his cue to leave. He stepped back and nodded. "Okay. I’ll get the door and the ladder. Let me know if you need something."
Before he could move, she grabbed his arm, her frigid fingers sending little shocks straight through his skin.
"Cruz, I’m sorry. I . . ."
"Hey, we’re good. I’m guessing whatever is in that folder isn't good news and you can’t talk about it. You’re an attorney. I get it."
Phone in hand, she sat back. "Where have you been all my life?"
He snapped off what his brothers called his panty-dropper smile. "I’m here now. For whatever you might need."
Unfortunately, her phone let out a series of beeps and completely shattered whatever it was they had going there.
He patted her hand. "I’ll let you get to that."
She released his arm and he headed toward the door to deal with the stairs.
"Cruz," she called, "I just got a text from my dad. He and his pilot are about to pull up. They’re going to Charleston."
The old man. Hownice. He'd never met the guy, but had seen enough online chatter to know Randolph didn't mind destroying people who got in his way. People like that, Cruz had no use for.
Cruz turned back and nodded. "It’ll be good to meet the man who raised an amazing daughter."
At that, she rolled her eyes. Then she gifted him with that slow, wicked smile he’d seen in her online interviews. Sexy Cilla, back in the house.
"Easy there, Charm Boy," she said. "Don’t stress yourself."
"Ha!"
Laughing, she stood, scooped up her briefcase, and slid the strap over her shoulder. "Still, compliments will get you everywhere."
Which was good because when it came to Cilla, everywhere was exactly where he wanted to be. His hands specifically.
On her.
Except, yeah, about to meet her father. He dragged his mind out of the gutter and focused on the door.
Two minutes later, he held his arm for her to disembark, grabbed his backpack from where he’d dropped it near the cockpit door, and followed her down the steps. A guy with short dark hair, black pants, and a golf shirt waited at the bottom, his gaze fixed on Cilla in a way Cruz wasn’t exactly fond of.
Proprietary.
Hungry.
Or maybe that was just Cruz’s impression because truth be told, he couldn’t blame the guy. Cruz probably looked at her that way himself. Smart, beautiful women who took no shit?
Catnip.
"Hi, Doug," she said, breezing by.
Total strikeout there, pal.
Cruz paused, held out his hand to the guy. "Cruz Blackwell."
