7. Liam

Chapter seven

Liam

I’m going out of town with Shiloh, and I'm not sure if I’ll be able to keep myself under control.

This isn’t like me. I don’t go crazy for women and don’t fall fast and hard. In fact, I rarely fall at all because I don’t believe in love.

But with Shiloh… fuck, it’s like I can’t breathe whenever she’s in the room.

I jam my laptop into the messenger bag with less care than I should, but hell, nerves are getting the better of me. A sleek black town car waits downstairs, and I can’t shake the edginess crawling under my skin.

With every step toward the elevator, Shiloh's face flashes in my mind—her easy smile these last few days that's undoing me bit by bit. It’s like she’s forgotten the unspoken thing simmering between us, or maybe she’s just damn good at playing it cool.

The city blurs past the tinted windows as I try not to think about the upcoming hours trapped in a metal tube with her. At the airport, I clear security with practiced ease, my thoughts tumbling over each other.

She didn’t quit. She didn’t report me even after I cornered her in my office and threatened to ‘punish’ her.

Does she want this tension as much as I do?

When I board, Shiloh is already there, tucked into her window seat in business class and reading a book. Her presence hits me, an electric jolt despite my telling myself I’m imagining things. No one else would even notice, but I know the silence between us is thick with words we haven't said.

"Good morning," is all I manage, the words feeling clumsy in my mouth.

"Morning," she replies without looking up, and something about her casual dismissal irks me more than it should.

I stow my bag overhead, a part of me wanting to say more, to break this maddening quiet. But I don’t. Instead, I slide into the seat beside her with only the barest brush of acknowledgment.

She’s absorbed in her book, and I can't help myself—I sneak a glance at her. She's all soft curves in those tailored slacks and that simple white top that fits just right. It's professional, but on Shiloh, it's also unintentionally enticing.

My gaze lingers longer than it should, drawn to the outline of her nipples pressing against the fabric. She never wears a proper bra, and it's like she's doing it on purpose, torturing me.

Every damn meeting, every brief crossing in the hallway—it's there, that subtle detail that no one else would even notice, that sets my blood on fire.

What would it be like to taste her? To hear the sounds she'd make if I were sucking on those pert nipples, pulling them into my mouth—

"Would you like something to drink?" The flight attendant's sudden appearance at my elbow snaps me out of my spiral, and I jerk my head toward her.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

"It’s no problem,” I mutter. “Bloody Mary, please." I glance over at Shiloh, who still seems lost in her book, the words likely not registering as she pretends I don't exist. "Shiloh? You want anything?"

She lifts her gaze from the page, her eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away. There's a hesitation, a flicker of something I can't quite read in her expression. It's frustrating how she can switch off and shut down any hint of what she's thinking whenever she wants to.

"Nothing for me, thanks." Her voice is soft, almost too quiet for the hum of the plane's interior.

"Come on, we're on a company trip. It's on me. Get whatever you want." I'm not sure why I push, why it suddenly feels important that she accepts something from me. Maybe it’s a test, or maybe I just want an excuse to interact with her, to break through the wall she's put up between us.

"Fine. A Mimosa, then." She looks back down at her book, but there's a small quirk on her lips, a ghost of a smile that says she knows exactly what I'm doing.

And that maybe—just maybe—she's letting me do it.

My treat feels like a small victory, but the silence that falls between us afterward is thick, charged with all the words we aren't saying. I try not to let it get to me, focusing on the ice clinking against the glass as my drink arrives, and I take a sip.

"Thank you," Shiloh murmurs when her drink is handed to her, and I catch a hint of red creeping up her neck. It's probably the heat, or maybe it's...

"Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff," the captain's voice cuts through the cabin.

I look out the window, watching as the ground crews pull away and the plane taxis towards the runway. Beside me, Shiloh is still, her attention finally off the book as she watches the flight attendants demonstrate safety precautions.

The familiar spiel washes over me; I've flown enough to recite it in my sleep, but I watch anyway because she's watching. And because it feels like something normal people do.

Plus, it keeps my eyes off the walking, talking temptation sitting beside me.

"Please fasten your seat belts," one of the attendants says, her voice chipper despite the early hour.

"Already done," I mutter to myself, clicking the metal ends together with a satisfying snap.

Beside me, Shiloh does the same, a precise, practiced motion. She doesn't glance my way, but I'm acutely aware of every little shift, every breath she takes. It's maddening how she can be so close and yet feel so far away.

"Should've brought a damn book," I grumble under my breath, reaching for the in-flight magazine instead.

But my eyes aren't on the pages—they're on her, taking in the curve of her jaw, the way her hair falls over her shoulder, and the outline of her profile against the morning light.

I tell myself it's just the boredom of the flight ahead that has me so fixated on her. But deep down, I know it’s more than that.

It's always been more than that.

The silence between us stretches, a tangible thing, and I hate it. I hate that she's so close yet giving me all the space in the world as if I'm a stranger, not her boss... not the man who—

"What are you reading?" The question bursts from me, raw and unfiltered, just as the plane starts its ascent into the open skies.

Shiloh tilts the book toward me, a corner of her mouth twitching as if she's fighting a smile—or annoyance; with her, it's hard to tell sometimes. "Villette," she says, her voice neutral, but her eyes don't leave the page.

"Villette," I echo, rolling the name on my tongue, trying to recall anything about it. I come up empty. "What's it about?"

"Unrequited love," she replies curtly, and something about those words hits too close to home.

I scowl, tightening my grip on my knees, feeling the fabric of my slacks strain under my fingers.

"Sounds uplifting," I manage, sarcasm tainting my tone.

"Very much so," Shiloh answers without missing a beat, though she doesn't look up.

I should leave her be. Should let her read in peace, should stop imagining scenarios where the tension between us breaks, where we—

But I can’t. Because every inch of space she puts between us feels like a challenge, feels like she's slipping away when I haven't even had a hold of her yet.

I clear my throat, a sound louder than I intend in the close quarters of the business class cabin. My eyes flicker back to Shiloh, who seems absorbed in her book. The engine's hum vibrates through the armrests, mirroring the restlessness I feel inside.

"Hey," I start, my voice cutting through the low murmur of passengers settling in. "When did you and Chris call it quits?"

She blinks, her fingers pausing on the page as if I've pulled her from another world. Her lips part slightly, and for a second, I think she might not answer. But then she presses them together, steeling herself.

"About two months ago," she says, her voice steady but softer than usual. There's a hint of something there—pain, maybe resignation. I can't quite pin it down.

"And actually, I didn’t break up with him; it was Chris who ended things."

The way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear tells me more than her words do. It was painful. Something bad happened. That son-of-a-bitch…

"Seriously?" I can't hide the disbelief in my voice. "I'm surprised you didn't kick him to the curb years ago."

She looks at me then, really looks at me with those deep brown eyes that always seem to see right through the bullshit. There's a vulnerability there that knocks the wind out of me.

"I could never bring myself to do it... even after he cheated on me," she confesses, her voice barely above the drone of the engines.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

Chris cheated on her?

Of course he did because he takes after our dickhead father. I clench my fists, rage simmering just beneath my skin.

"What an asshole," I mutter under my breath, not caring if she hears me or not. It's true. Chris is an asshole, and she deserves so much more than what he gave her.

Shiloh just nods, a sad little smile playing on her lips as she turns her gaze back to her book. I stare at the top of her head, the way her hair falls in soft waves, and fight the urge to reach out and comfort her.

"Shiloh," I say, my voice low but firm. Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, and that look of surprise is back. "You deserve better."

She blinks, clearly taken aback by my words. It's like she's seeing a side of me she didn't know existed. Maybe I didn't either.

But right now, in this cramped space where the lines between boss and employee blur into something else, it feels right to say it.

"Thanks," she whispers, and there's a hint of something warm in her eyes before she quickly looks away.

"Anyway," I continue, pushing aside all the unwanted emotions that are trying to claw their way to the surface. "I'm going to try to catch some sleep." I lean back in my seat, not waiting for her response. "Wake me when we get there, okay?"

"Sure," Shiloh replies softly, her gaze fixed on the pages of her book once more.

I pull out my earbuds and shove them into my ears, blocking out the world around me. The satisfaction from our conversation lingers, mixed with a dangerous thrill I can't quite shake off. I close my eyes, letting the steady hum of the plane lull me towards a restless sleep.

Maybe I can at least not be an asshole.

She deserves that, if nothing else.