“Wonder how many bimbos the Von Bergen boys have banged on that,” I mutter.
“None that I can recall,” Nick says behind me, making me jump.
I turn with a rush of breath. “I thought you were parking the car.”
“I gave it to Gretchen instead,” he says. “Told her she could drive it until we get back. Her husband sold their van when they moved to the city center a few years ago, and she misses driving.”
I blink. “And Gretchen is…?”
“The hostess.” He motions back toward the stairs. “I gave her the day off. I mean, it’s the day after Christmas. I figured we could pour our own coffee and toss our own trash.”
“Of course, we can,” I agree, my shoulders easing away from my ears. Good. This is good news. I smile up at Nick. “Now we don’t have to pretend to be friends and make stupid chitchat the entire flight.”
“Well, I expect at least a little stupid chitchat.” He shrugs off his coat, reaching into the closet by the couch to grab a hanger. “I brought a novel, but I can’t go ten hours without conversation, Alexandra. I don’t think I’ve gone ten hours straight without talking my entire life. I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I say dryly.
“Very funny.” He grins and reaches for my scarf, wrapping it around a new hanger before motioning for my coat. “Give it to me. Jeffrey will have a fit if I let snow melt on the leather.”
“I’m cold,” I lie, clutching it closed at my throat.
“I’ll get you a blanket,” he says, motioning more insistently. “Come on, now. You don’t want to get on Jeffrey’s bad side.”
“Jeffrey will never know I was on this plane.”
“Which means he’ll blame me for the leather damage and pound my face as soon as I get home. And I’d really rather not have a black eye on my birthday.”
“Oh, please, he won’t give you a black eye,” I grumble as I reach for the top button on my coat. Clearly, Nick isn’t going to let this go, and the longer I resist, the bigger deal he will make of the “big reveal.”
Fingers moving swiftly and efficiently, I undo the buttons and guide the wool off my shoulders, jaw clenched as I brace for the worst. I expect a whistle, or at the very least an embarrassing compliment that will make me even more uncomfortable than I am already in this stupid dress Nick insisted I wear.
But he doesn’t say a word.
He simply reaches for my coat, hangs it up, and breezes past me, moving deeper into the cabin like I haven’t revealed a tight red dress or exposed enough cleavage to make me wish I’d gone ahead with the breast reduction I considered last year.
I’m only a C-cup, but a C-cup on someone as petite as I am everywhere else is a lot of boob.
When I’m at the beach in a swimsuit or wear something tight out to a bar, I’m accustomed to men talking to my chest. Hell, if I’m wearing my in-search-of-kissing-company shirt—a cleavage-enhancing number with a plunging neckline—everyone who passes my barstool will take a look.
Straight or gay, male or female, if you put that much breast on display, people will turn to check it out. It’s a primal thing, perhaps—sizing up the sex appeal of a potential mate or rival—but it’s definitely “a thing.”
A nearly universal thing.
But apparently, not with Nick.
As I settle into a leather chair across from his, his attention remains fixed on my face. “I thought I’d wait until we were in the air to make coffee and see what Gretchen stocked in the fridge for breakfast. Unless you’re hungry or thirsty now.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I sit up straighter, rolling my shoulders back, but Nick still doesn’t seem tempted to slide his gaze south of my chin. “Speaking of Gretchen, she knows not to say anything about seeing us getting on a plane together, right?”
He nods. “Absolutely. Gretchen doesn’t gossip, and even if she did, she wouldn’t gossip about me.” He grins, making his dimples pop. “I’m her favorite brother.”
“And why’s that?” I prop my elbow on the armrest and lean to my right, causing the neck of the dress to dip even lower, but Nick remains all innocent smiles.
He’s either immune to my boobs or choosing to be a gentleman about them. I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does.
A lot.
So much so that I shift my forearm, giving the girls a boost from below.
But still—nothing.
Nick gazes directly into my eyes as he says, “Because I’m adorable, Zan. If you give me a chance, I think you’ll like me. Or at least not hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
His clever eyes twinkle with mischief. “No, you’re pretending not to hate me in an attempt to regain the upper hand you lost during our ski trip, when your death glare failed to send me running for the hills with my tail tucked between my legs.”