Chapter 2 Episode 2
1640 Words
“Miss, you have to sit down,” the flight attendant from beforescolds. “The seatbelt light is on and—”
I ignore her and charge ahead. She undoes her seatbelt like shemeans to stand up and block me from getting into thebathroom.
So much for “us ladies need to stick together.”
I barrel into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, drop tomy knees, and rip open the little plastic lid.
And as soon as I do, the feeling in my stomach fades away.
“What the hell?” I gasp, almost annoyed at myself for notthrowing up. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.Roger was right about that much.
There’s a pounding on the bathroom door. “Miss, you cannotbe in there. This door should have been locked. You need tocome out.”
The plane is still shaking, but not as badly as it was a fewmoments ago. My heart is pounding and there’s sweat on theback of my neck… but no vomit.
I close the lid and stand up, then wash my hands before Ifinally open the door. The flight attendant is glaring at me.
“You need to sit down, ma’am. Now.”
I nod pitifully and start picking my way down the aisletowards my seat. “I’m sorry. I’m a nervous flier and theturbulence and… I thought I was going to be sick.”
“When the seatbelt light is on, you need to stay in your seatand—”
Before she can finish her scolding, another burst of turbulenceknocks the plane sideways. The flight attendant goes one way,I go the other…
And I land right in the lap of Scary Russian Guy.
I yelp and try to right myself. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—The turbulence, I just—”
He grips my waist and lifts me up like I weigh nothing.“Breathe. It’s okay.”
His voice is deep and icy. I finally look up at his face andfreeze.
Holy s**t, this man is hot. Like, cover of a men’s magazine,lead of a superhero movie franchise hot.
His eyes are a molten silver that churns with unreadableemotion. His jaw is clenched tight, hair tousled, fragranceseductive.
The flight attendant comes to try to reel me back to where Ibelong, but my legs are no longer functioning. I’m stuck,
staring at the man, imagining all the dirty things that voice ofhis could whisper in my ear. Possibly in Russian.
My stomach is fluttering again, but for a very different reason.Then more turbulence shakes the plane, and the flightattendant has had enough.
“Sit!” she commands, pointing at the empty seat next to theman. “Now!”
“But… but that isn’t my—My seat is over—”
She shoves me towards the seat. The man gently grips mywaist again, helping me past him and into the seat next to him.
As soon as she’s satisfied I’m strapped in and no longer anuisance, the attendant huffs away. I’m left to look over at mynew seatmate with a nervous smile.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was going to throw up.” My face flameswith embarrassment. “I mean, I didn’t. Didn’t get sick, that is.I did think I would, but I didn’t. I’m a nervous flier. In caseyou couldn’t tell.”
The man watches me, his light gray eyes observant but distant.It’s truly hard to look at him. People shouldn’t be allowed tobe this attractive. Or this cool under pressure. I thought I wasgoing to die, and he looks as relaxed as ever. The worstturbulence I’ve ever felt, and yet this man’s heart rate didn’teven approach room temperature.
“Are you going to get sick now?” he asks. There’s nodetectable accent. Russian must be his second language.
“No.” I shake my head and then wince. “I don’t think so,anyway.”
He reaches into a small compartment between the seats andremoves a hospital blue waterproof bag. “Use this if you needto.”
I wince. “I didn’t even think to look there. I figured the bagswould be in the back of the seats.”
“First time in first class?”
I might be offended by his assumption if it wasn’t soincredibly on point. I nod. “Yeah. I got bumped up. I think theattendant took pity on me. She probably won’t make thatmistake again.”
“Why would she take pity on you?”
I hitch my thumb towards the back half of the plane. “There’sa bachelor party back there. They were being pretty loud, and Iwas going to be sitting smack dab in the middle of them.”
“Good call on her part,” he says, sitting back in his seat.“Sitting a pretty woman near a group of horny men is a recipefor disaster.”
He places his arm on the armrest, and even though there’splenty of space for both of us, his warm skin brushes acrossmine. Goosebumps race down my spine.
As if his skin on mine isn’t enough to process, my brain snagson “pretty woman.” Like a dumb teenager talking to her crush,I wonder, He thinks I’m pretty?
“Oh, uh, well,” I stutter. My tongue feels like it’s twice thesize it normally is. “I don’t know if that’s why. I have beenstressed. I’m on a work trip and things have been a mess. Ithink she noticed that and wanted to help out.”
“Are you saying you don’t think you’re pretty?”
I suck in a surprised breath and turn to him. He’s looking atme again, his face still completely unreadable.
Not sure what to do, I laugh like a loon. “I don’t—I wasn’tsaying—You can’t just ask people something like that.”
“For who?” he asks. “I’m not uncomfortable. I called youbeautiful, and you seemed to disagree. I want to know why.”
I swallow. “You said I was pretty, not beautiful.”
“My mistake,” he says coolly. “Beautiful. Final answer.”
My face is bright red now. I could hang over intersections anddirect traffic. I’m flaming with embarrassment and nerves.“Got it. Thanks.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he inquires.
“No.” I shake my head. “Maybe… maybe ‘uncomfortable’was the wrong word. You’re making me nervous.”
His mouth quirks up in a smirk. “Why?”
“As if you don’t know,” I snort.
That’s not an exaggeration—I do actually snort. Like a legitpig. I duck my face, but the man reaches forward to tilt mychin up with one callused finger.
“I want to hear you say it.”
I’m not sure if he actually doesn’t know or if he just wants tohear me say he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
“Well, for starters, you’re the beautiful one,” I say, gesturing tohim with both hands like he’s the grand prize on a game show.“You’re quite handsome and clearly successful and very muchin your element. Whereas I was just about to throw up in anairplane bathroom while a flight attendant beat on the door.”
“I’m sure that was an anomaly,” he suggests.
“Unfortunately, no.” I shake my head. “My life is… It’s amess, to keep a long story short. So being around someone likeyou is a lot for me to handle. I’m worried I’m going to make afool of myself. Even though I’m pretty sure I already have.And I still am. Like now. And now. And now.”
He shakes his head. “You haven’t made a fool of yourself.”
“Oh God, you’re nice, too,” I groan. “You’re clearly onlysaying that to spare my feelings.”
“If you really feel like being down on yourself, I’ll give youone thing: you aren’t a very good judge of character.”
“No,” he says, leaning in close. His breath smells likepeppermint. “Because I am the farthest f*****g thing fromnice.”
The image of him barking something cruel in Russian into hisphone rises up in my mind. I want to ask him what that wasabout. Maybe he’s having a bad day at work, too. Maybe wecould bond over having s**t-for-brain bosses.
Something tells me he’s the boss.
“You’ve been nice to me,” I counter lamely.
“Because you’re interesting,” he says. “You were right: I amsuccessful. And I know I’m attractive.”
“I don’t need to be. And neither do you.” He drags his fingersacross my knuckles, and I clench my legs together. “I’msurrounded by people who know exactly how to act andalways say the right thing. It’s boring. I much prefer a little…spontaneity.”
Not sure I’m his girl in that regard. Sure, I “spontaneously”stole my younger sister from our psycho mother and had hermove in with me. But I doubt that “let a fourteen-year-oldmove into your crappy apartment” is the kind of spontaneityhe’s talking about.
He nods. “I like to keep things exciting.”
His words feel like an invitation. One I feel powerless to turndown. I mean, fate got me bumped to first class and thenplopped down in this seat next to him. Who am I to refusedestiny, right?
Just as I’m about to fumble my way through somethingresembling flirting, the plane lurches sideways yet again.
“s**t!” I yelp and clamp my hand down on the armrest.
Correction: arm, not armrest. Russian Guy’s arm, to bespecific. There are fingernail indents in his skin by the time I
peel my hand off, but I’m too far gone to even apologize. Thefear is choking me out and I can’t stop it.
- Writer
