Jill knew the moment the plane left the ground because Vin went all the way rigid, and her next move was purely reflexive.
She slid her fingers over his forearm, trailed over his wrist until they reached his palm. The second their fingers were aligned, his bigger hand crushed over hers. They were holding hands.
It wasn’t a romantic handhold. Or a sexy one.
He was practically crushing her fingers, and sweat was beading on his forehead.
But it was important, all the same. Important that she be there for him.
“It’ll get better in a moment,” she said, just as a particularly rough bit of air jerked the plane.
“How do you figure? We’re a couple thousand feet in the air,” he said through gritted teeth.
“It’ll smooth out once we reach cruising altitude. Takeoff’s always the worst.”
So was landing. But she didn’t mention this.
Jill silently prayed that it wouldn’t be a particularly turbulent flight, and her prayers were answered when the plane eventually leveled off and the jerking stopped.
Eventually the flight attendants made their “coming through the cabin with drinks” announcement, and even better, the seat belt light went off.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Jill asked.
“I’m not a child, Henley.”
“I’m just saying, you might want to go while the seat belt light is off.”
He gave her the side-eye. “It comes back on sometimes?”
Vincent still hadn’t released her hand.
“If it gets bumpy,” she said patiently. “Vin, have you never flown before?”
“I have,” he grunted. “A couple times.”
“And this um, fear—”
“It’s so much more than fear.”
She smiled. Good for him for not trying to puff up his chest about it. “Has it always been there?”
“Pretty much. Never figured out how to reconcile willingly putting one’s self inside a tin can hurled through the air with a couple sticks attached.”
“Sticks?” she asked. “Oh. You mean the wings?”
They hit another bump, and he exhaled, clenching her hand even more firmly.
“Let’s talk about the case,” she suggested, trying to get his mind off the tin-can-with-sticks scenario. “Did you get that e-mail I forwarded to you with the article about Kathryn DeBorio…?”
Slowly, slowly, Vincent’s breathing evened out as he answered her questions. His grip on her fingers eased somewhere over the Midwest, the pad of his thumb lightly stroking along her forefinger as they talked.
Eventually they exhausted the case and moved on to his family. They discussed Anth’s overprotective almost-father tendencies, Elena’s recent moodiness, his parents upcoming anniversary, and what the kids should to do celebrate… he asked about her mom, which she answered. Asked about the wedding, which she didn’t.
Jill found herself surprised when she felt the subtle downward dip of the plane’s nose signaling their initial descent. She was fairly certain Vincent in all his sweaty tension wouldn’t agree, but it was one of the shorter flights she could remember.
Six hours had felt more like two.
Jill told herself it was just because she’d let herself get wrapped up in conversation. She was a talker after all.
Vincent’s grip tightened slightly during the bumpy descent, although he seemed less on the verge of death than he had during takeoff.
She felt the rough bump of the wheels hitting the runway. Felt the familiar pressure of being pulled forward.
She grinned at Vincent and squeezed his fingers. “We did it.”
Well, they hadn’t done anything.
But he’d survived, and that was something.
He didn’t smile back.
Nor did he release her hand.
Not until they reached the jetway and the Fasten Seat Belt sign clicked off did he finally, finally let go.
And before he did, he briefly, roughly jerked her hand to his mouth. Pressed his lips against the back of her hand just briefly.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Vincent stood then, easily maneuvering their bags out of the overhead compartment, but Jill stayed seated a bit longer under the guise of putting her stuff back in her bag.
In reality, she paused because she wasn’t quite ready to stand, too worried that her legs would be shaky.
Not from the flight.
But from the realization that she could still feel Vincent Moretti’s lips burning against the back of her hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Vincent and Jill were still operating under the assumption that Lenora Birch had been killed over professional jealousies or vendettas, rather than personal ones.
Their bosses, however, wanted no stone left unturned, particularly given the cost of sending two of their homicide detectives to California for three days.
Which was how Vincent and Jill came to find themselves on the back patio sipping iced tea with James Killroy, an aging but still relevant action star.
And Vin would never admit it—not in a million years…
But he was starstruck.