Crummymoon: A Steamy Romantic Comedy
Chapter 1
“The middle seat? Seriously?” I mutter under my breath, my eyes narrowing as I stare at the screenshot of my boarding pass on my cellphone. “When I get back home, I’m going to hunt Matt down, rip his nuts off with my bare hands, and feed them to a pack of hungry squirrels.”
Clumsily, I make my way down the narrow aisle of Flight number 230, accidentally bumping into the sides of chairs and protruding elbows. Just as I’m about to reach my seat, a careless passenger swinging her carryon bag nearly strikes me in the head while trying to place it in the overhead compartment at the last row of First Class. The section that would have been mine if Matt wasn’t such a cheap bastard.
“Whoa,” I snap. “Pay attention to the people walking by.”
“Oops.” The stunning redhead in a pair of oversized sunglasses shrugs. “My bad.”
“Just so you know—My bad isn’t an apology.”
“Maybe” — she flashes an insincere smile — “you should look up when you’re walking.” She casually plops down into her spacious leather seat and brushes me off with a dismissive finger wiggle wave.
Bitch.
Huffing a frustrated breath, I ignore her flippant finger gesture and continue my way to the Economy section, row twenty-two.
There it is. My seat. The middle of a cramped three-seat row.
Matt sucks.
“Excuse me. That’s mine.” I point toward the crappiest seat ever made to the petite twenty-something girl reading a safety manual in the aisle seat.
“Oh, of course.” She stands and takes a small step backward.
“Thanks.” I squeeze past her and settle into my chair.
Taking a quick peek at the text messages on my phone before I stash it away, I roll my eyes. There’s seven. All from my well-meaning, worrywart mother.
Mom
Are you sure you don’t want me to join you? I can take a flight in the morning.
Never been so sure of anything in my life.
Mom
It’s dangerous for a young woman to travel alone.
But my five-foot nothing mother will protect me.
Mom
Don’t worry about your father. There’s two weeks’ worth of leftovers in the freezer.
My mother never fully grasped the concept of cooking for two.
Mom
My passport expired, but I’m sure the airline will let me fly. I have a very honest face.
The woman is delusional.
Mom
Do you remember Marjorie’s son, Kyle? He graduated from high school with you.
He also masturbated under the bleachers while watching the cheerleaders practice. His nickname was “Sticky Fingers.”
Mom
I showed him a recent photo of you. He wants to have dinner with you once you’re back.
Uh… nope.
Mom
Did you remember to pack diarrhea medication?
Okay. I’m done.
“There’s a magazine in the seat pocket in front of you that has a list of the movies the airline offers,” my seatmate says. “And a safety manual.”
“Thanks.”
“This is my first time out of the country. First time on a plane, actually.”
“HmmMmm.” Please don’t be a chatterbox.
“Did you know that the emergency exit is in the row directly in front of ours?”
“Okay. Um, thanks for letting me know.”
She peeks around the chair in front of her. “Do you think they’re up for the task?”
“The flight attendants do this for a living. They’re more than qualified.”
“No, I mean the passengers seated in that row. In case of an actual emergency, they’re responsible for opening the door.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.” I glance at the unoccupied window seat, the one that was supposed to be Matt’s, silently hoping it remains vacant so I can slide over and have a buffer between me and the Nervous Nellie beside me.
Extending her neck even further, she takes another quick glance ahead before leaning back and cupping her hand beside her mouth. “Don’t you think they look a bit… old? That door looks heavy. Do you think they can lift it?”
“I’m sure the crew already asked them. It’ll be fine.” I bend down and search for the handbag I kicked under the chair. Unzipping the bag, I feel around for my sunglasses. That redhead who almost beheaded me had the right idea.
Don’t let them see your eyes.
“I’m reading the safety manual so I can take over,” my seatmate assures me.
“I’m sure the other passengers appreciate it,” I say dryly. “Think I’m going to rest my eyes for a little while and relax before we take off.” Slipping on my sunglasses, I close my eyes. This is the politest way I can think of to say, “Please don’t talk to me.”
“Oh,” her voice cracks. “Okay.”
Dammit.
Clearly, the girl is anxious—and like a jerk, I’m blowing her off. I flip my sunglasses to the top of my head and turn to her. “I’ve flown many, many times. We’ll be fine.”
A half-smile crosses her face. “Thank you for saying that. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” Slipping back on my glasses, my guilty conscience thanks me for stepping up. I exhale a breath and close my eyes again.
The noise from passengers talking over each other, slamming overhead compartment doors, and the constant pings of the plane’s call buttons make it impossible to relax. I should have popped a sleeping pill when I had the chance.
“Excuse me.” My eyes spring open to a man’s crotch inches from my nose. Specifically… Sweatpants crotch. Commando. Hangs to the left. Pretty sure he’s circumcised. This may be the closest I’ve come to sex in months. “Can you shift over so I can get to my chair?” he asks.
Who faces their seatmates when entering a row?
A genitalia exhibitionist… that’s who.
He’s a dick-hibitionist. A phallus flaunter. A pecker peeper.
“Sure.” I unglue my gaze from the free-swinging penis porn outlined in gray cotton fleece and stand. As my newest seatmate waits to take his spot, I inhale the faint fragrance of his cologne.
His dick may be indecently on the loose, but at least he smells good.
The backpack he’s carrying smacks into my shoulder as he shimmies past me. “My bad,” he mumbles as he twists around and sits.
My bad is not an apology.
Gently he slides the backpack under the seat, like he’s putting a sleeping baby in its crib. He settles into his chair, clips his seatbelt closed, and dips his NY Mets baseball cap over his face.
As the last few passengers seat themselves and the crew begins the flight emergency instructions, Window Seat guy is already passed out cold.
“Psst. The man sleeping is missing the evacuation instructions,” aisle seat girl whispers to me. “He won’t know what to do if we crash into the ocean. He looks strong. He could open the emergency exit door. Should we wake him?”
I shake my head and shove my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose until the rims are pressed against my brows—like it’s going to make me invisible or something.
Ignoring me, she reaches across my lap and taps his knee. “Excuse me.”
“I don’t want a meal. Thanks,” he says through a yawn, pulling his hat’s visor down further.
“You’re missing the emergency evacuation instructions,” she tells him.
He answers her with a soft snore.
Still reaching over me, she takes hold of his knee and shakes it. “You really should pay attention.”
“Wh…what?” He straightens himself out and flips up his baseball cap. His blue eyes are bloodshot as hell.
That better be a hangover sitting next to me and not pinkeye.
He blinks and winces when he directs his gaze at the overhead light.
Good. It’s a hangover.
“You have to listen to the safety instructions,” she whispers. “The emergency exit is right there.” She points toward the plane’s side doors.
He chuckles, leaning forward to look at her. “Nervous flier?”
“First time,” I mumble.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he assures her with a quick wink. “I’ve sat in this seat many times. It’s like my second home.”
Her hazel eyes widen and she cups her hand to the side of her mouth, “Are you an Air Marshal?” she mouths.
He flashes a smile. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
The guy is lying. Air Marshal’s don’t fly hungover with their fleece-flocked junk on display. I don’t know much, but I’m positive that’s not a gun he’s packing in his pants.
“Got it.” She nods knowingly. Relief fills her face as she leans back, shifting her attention to the crew at the front.
Maybe I forgot I took a sleeping pill and I’m hallucinating—because this can’t possibly be my reality.
Ugh. It’s only a four-hour flight to Mexico. I’ll just have to deal with it.
I’m stuck with this trip because Matt insisted travel insurance was too expensive and we didn’t need it. I went along with him because I couldn’t imagine any reason for us to cancel.
Until I found one. A big one.
I clench my eyes shut, trying to escape the memories that haunt me. I’m making the best of the crummiest of crummy situations.
After all I’ve been through to get here, being sandwiched between the swinging dick and this clingy chick for a few hours is a small price to pay for a temporary escape from my troubles.
My eyes snap open behind my sunglasses as I hear voices talking above me. Literally above me. The Air Marshal in the window seat and the girl from the Safety Patrol in the aisle seat are engaged in a lively conversation, completely disregarding my presence as I was peacefully sleeping.
“And you kept your hotel and flight reservations?” he asks her.
“I already booked this trip and would have lost all my money. Anyway, I needed a break from… stuff.”
“You took your first plane trip traveling alone?”
“I was supposed to go with someone… but…,” she hesitates.
“Stuff happened,” he says kindly, completing her sentence.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Stuff happened.”
“Sounds like a Mexican vacation is exactly what you need to forget about… stuff.”
I sneak a look at her through the periphery of my sunglasses as a grin emerges from the edge of her mouth.
Clearing my throat, I straighten my posture to let them know I’m awake and Conversation-Over-Tess-Time is officially over. “Did I miss the food?”
As we finish our less-than-satisfying “meal” consisting of a tiny bag of pretzels and a can of Diet Coke, I’m relieved to see that my nervous seatmate is engrossed in a movie from the inflight entertainment. Seizing the opportunity of the relative quiet, I reach down to retrieve my hobo bag stowed beneath the seat. With a sense of excitement, I locate my book, open it up, and settle back comfortably. I’ve been saving this spicy novel specifically for this vacation, and I can hardly contain my eagerness to dive into its pages.
Real-life romance is my sworn enemy. But I can’t help myself with this book. Fictional romance is — and will always be — my jam.
Maybe true love only exists in our imaginations.
I’m ten minutes into my book when…
“Wicked Temptation?” Window guy/Air Marshal interrupts my reading. “That’s one helluva title.”
I peer down at my page, grit my teeth, and ignore him.
“Let me guess… it’s a children’s book.”
I stick my finger in the spine to hold my place, close the book, and turn my attention to him. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“No. It was funny.”
“Are you criticizing my reading material?”
“Are you criticizing my joke?” he counters.
“I don’t appreciate you judging me for what I’m reading.”
“You think I’m judging you?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re reading a romance novel?”
“Yes, and I have a real issue with…,” I start but I’m interrupted.
“People who criticize book genres?”
“Exactly.”
“Lady, you could read the telephone book and I wouldn’t care. I was only trying to make friendly conversation while we’re stuck in a flying tube.”
“Try minding your business instead.”
His brow furrows, he squints his eyes, and glares at my arm.
“What?” I ask, annoyed.
“There’s something on your shoulder.”
My heart pounds frantically in my chest, and my pulse races. I’ve come across too many terrifying tales about insects from other lands hitching rides on planes. The last thing I want is to glance over and find a scorpion waving its tiny pincers at me.
“What? What is it?” I ask in panic.
“A chip. A big ol’ chip.”
“Oh my God. You’re so annoying.”
“You mispronounced adorable.”
This guy.
This freaking guy.
“Look ‘Air Marshal’,” I air quote. “There’s ninety minutes left of this flight. Let’s pretend there’s an invisible divider between your seat and mine. You and your thoughts stay in your designated area.”
“Sure.” He air quotes back. “Wicked Temptation.”