A deep laugh rumbles out of his chest. “It’ll be fine, babe. You’re more likely to get hit by a bus than die in a plane crash. That’s a fact.”
His reply mollifies me only slightly. My nerves continue gnawing at my stomach, especially when the jet lurches forward and starts wheeling out of the hangar. It rolls toward one of the runways and a second later the pilot’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker to announce we’re taking off.
I keep my gaze on my lap as the plane speeds down the long strip. When the wheels lift off the runway, my stomach turns. You have a better chance of getting hit by a bus, I tell myself, and then repeat the mantra in my head as the jet makes its ascent.
“Just take a quick peek,” Ben urges. He places a hand on my chin in an attempt to direct my gaze to the window. “Look how gorgeous the city looks from the air.”
Curiosity gets the best of me. I lean across his broad chest and press my nose to the window. “Wow, you’re right.”
The plane continues to climb into the sky, providing a beautiful view of the cityscape below. Though the sun hasn’t quite set entirely, the lights of Manhattan sparkle up at us, the high-rises and skyscrapers growing smaller and smaller the higher we go. The cars speeding across the George Washington Bridge look like the miniature toy cars one of my foster brothers used to play with. Everything looks pretty and surreal, and for the first time all day, a genuine smile reaches my lips.
The smile fades, however, when I realize I’m draped across Ben’s chest. That my breasts are squashed into one of his muscular arms. Awareness prickles my skin, searing through my sweater and making my nipples pebble against my thin bra. I know he feels those tight buds, because he slowly moves his arm so that the sleeve of his leather jacket rubs against me.
What is the matter with me? How is it possible that I still haven’t gotten enough of this man? He’s been staying at my apartment for five days, for Pete’s sake. We’ve already had sex more times than I can count. So how come every time I look at him, every time he looks at me, the desire is as fierce and potent as it was that first night at the hotel?
“It’s a great view, isn’t it?” he drawls.
I turn to see his blue eyes glued to my mouth. I almost lick my lips in anticipation of his kiss. It embarrasses me how badly I want this man. I should be angry with him for whisking me away when I still have so much work to do, and instead all I can think about is ripping his clothes off.
“Crimson.”
I shoot him a look. “What?”
“Crimson,” he repeats. “The color of your cheeks. That’s the shade of red you turn when you’re embarrassed.”
“You know how I’m feeling from my cheeks?”
“Yep.” He shrugs. “A big part of acting is reading other people’s expressions. That way you know how to react.”
A ding rings through the jet, indicating we can unbuckle our seatbelts.
I cross my legs and give him a thoughtful look. “I keep forgetting you’re an actor and not just a celebrity, like the celebrities who aren’t famous for anything at all. Though you do fill the celebrity arrogance criteria to a T.”
“It’s part of my natural charm.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“You know,” he says, his features growing serious, “it’s really easy to fall into the Hollywood trap once you become famous. You could be the most down-to-earth, kind-hearted person and then you get to Hollywood and your ego inflates like a balloon. Suddenly you’re stepping over people to get ahead or drowning in a lifestyle that has the power to kill you. Sex, power, drugs, that sort of thing.”
“So how’d you escape the trap?”
“I have a very good mother.” He shifts over so we’re face to face, and something really wholesome and genuine flickers in his gorgeous eyes. “She always made sure I had a good head on my shoulders, even if it meant slapping it into place.”
Envy grips at me, but I try to look unaffected. It isn’t Ben’s fault I didn’t luck out in the maternal role model department, or that my voice will never contain that tinge of love and admiration when I speak of my own mother.
“What about your father?” I ask curiously.
“He ran off with another woman when I was two. Haven’t seen him since.”
I offer a bitter smile. “Join the club.”
“Your dad took off too?”
“My dad wasn’t in the picture to begin with. My mother was the one who did the running.” I swallow. “I grew up in foster care.”
“Did you always live in New York?”
“Yep. Did you always live in Hollywood?”