Frequent Fliers

Chapter One

one

Lanie

■ 25-AUG ■ Trans-Continental Airways ■ Flight: 5866 ■

JFK-John F. Kennedy Int’l Airpor t ? LHR-London, Heathrow

Seat Assignment: 12A/12C

Every summer since she was ten, Lanie Turner ran away from home.

It was sanctioned, of course, her destination known and carefully planned. Despite that, it never stopped being a thrilling adventure and daring escape from the humdrum of her regular life. For years, it remained the only thing about Lanie that made her interesting to peers: the number of stamps in her passport. Really, the fact that she had a valid passport at all, unlike 63 percent of all Americans. But this year, technically her eighteenth annual escape, for the first time Lanie didn’t really want to go.

It didn’t help that she was out of practice, having spent eighteen of the past thirty-six months housebound— like most everyone on the planet . As a result, Lanie hadn’t set foot on any conveyance more complicated than New York City’s Metropolitan Transportation Authority in forever. Truth was, she’d barely reaccustomed herself to being out and about again. It was a lot, being in her office more than occasionally, making brunch plans with friends, going out on dates. Basically, seeing anyone besides her mother day in and day out. Her mother, who had trouble letting Lanie go down the street to pick up groceries these days, never mind board a whole plane without supervising via phone.

“I’m sorry?” Lanie said into that phone.

“Pining is a recipe for loneliness, honey.”

Lanie grimaced at those words before flashing a nonthreatening smile to the blank-faced gate agent standing at the Jetway and showing him her electronic ticket.

Even after thirty-five years in the United States, the slightest musical lilt of a Caribbean accent occasionally threaded through her mother’s faster New Yorkese, with its nasal intonation and rolling vowel sounds—particularly when she reverted to her more plaintive “gentle” voice. The same one she’d used, once upon a time, to convince Lanie to eat all her peas and carrots.

“Melanie, you hear me?”

“Yup.” She nodded in exaggerated fashion though her mother couldn’t see it. “Uh-huh, got it.”

Her mother sighed like she knew what Lanie was doing. She probably did.

“I think I’m doing the opposite of pining. If I didn’t go it would look like I was—”

The wheels of a hard-shell suitcase ran over her foot. Lanie yelped as the accompanying man raced past her down the Jetway.

“Ouch, we’re all going to the same place, buddy!”

“Excuse me!” he called over his shoulder belatedly, on his own more contentious and animated phone conversation.

“What happened?” her mother cried.

Anything and everything related to flying filled Ryan Turner with anxiety. Even when she wasn’t the one traveling—which was always, since her mother never ever flew anywhere—Ryan believed flying was a catastrophe waiting to happen. So it didn’t take much to make her hysterical.

“Nothing, Mommy,” Lanie soothed. “Just some asshole who doesn’t realize he’s only gonna get on the plane a millisecond before I do!”

Sure enough, three people ahead of her, there he was, a tall drink of water waiting his turn to step onto the plane like everyone else. Lanie shook her head.

“Melanie, honey.” Her mother continued the unending mild reprimand that had begun a month ago, when she first heard Lanie was buying a ticket to attend her cousin’s upcoming engagement party in the UK. “No one would have blamed you if you had chosen to stay home.”

“We both know that’s not true. And that’s why I’m going,” Lanie reiterated for the umpteenth time. Her eyes were inexplicably riveted to the back of Mr. Rude Businessman’s head as he shoved his ticket at the flight attendant directing people to their seats. It startled the poor woman, but he was still too focused on his call to notice. “To make sure everyone knows I’m happy for them.”

“You cannot always be a pushover, just suffering in silence.”

“Who says I’m suffering?”

Her mother went quiet, which Lanie knew wasn’t good. “I don’t think this is healthy.”

It wasn’t the first time her mother had expressed this sentiment, but it was the first she’d framed it in this way, like a mental health issue. Which got Lanie’s hackles up.

“What did Narcisa say?” Ryan asked.

“You remember that just because Narcisa’s a therapist, doesn’t mean she’s my therapist, right?”

“But she’s one of your best friends and she’s a psychologist...she must have an opinion? She can’t think this is a good idea.”

“Sounds like you already know what she said. So what’s the point in asking me?”

Lanie took the phone from her ear to show the smiling flight attendant her e-boarding pass.

Finally on the plane and moving down the aisle, Lanie saw Mr. Rude Businessman standing right in front of her row—she checked her pass against the numbers above the seats to be absolutely sure...twice. She groaned. He was still on his call, arguing, white earbuds protruding from his ears. Now, however, he spoke in a strained whisper as he shoved his roller case into the overhead compartment, then dragged his coat off and stuffed it inside too.

Which reminded her.

“Hello? Melanie? No, this girl did not hang up on me!” her mother groused as Lanie brought the phone back to her ear. “Melanie Francesca! Are you still there?”

“Yes, Mom. I have to find my seat.”

Lanie watched as a petite older woman stretched and struggled to push a tote into the overhead bin in front of her. At five foot nine, Lanie knew her tall-person duties. With a quick exchange of silent gestures, she juggled her own bag and phone to offer the woman some help. As she situated the bag in the bin, the woman thanked her profusely in one ear while her mother harangued Lanie in the other.

Mr. Rude Businessman plopped down into his seat and Lanie sighed. Of course.

The overhead bin above her row— their row—was almost full. Her obnoxious seatmate had put his case flat in the compartment with his large cape-like coat on top of it. There wasn’t any space left for her carry-on. She glanced around. Every other nearby bin was either full or soon to be. Her shoulders fell. She hated touching others’ belongings.

“Is that what I’m supposed to say to the Institutional Review Board when they ask me what the fuck happened?” the man growled. He was in the aisle seat but turned toward the window facing the tarmac. “You know this could put the entire trial in jeopardy? I am the only investigator who can collect consents. We all sat down and agreed. Everyone knows this! It’s not new. And if it happens again—I don’t give two shits that he’s your mate—he’ll be sacked!”

“Who is that person shouting?” Ryan cried. “Is he in your row?”

She’d forgotten her mother was still there.

“Mommy, relax... Now, hang on.” Lanie took the phone from her ear and cleared her throat just as her row mate was throwing another agitated expletive at whoever was on the other side of his conversation.

His crisp diction wavered somewhere between an American and an English accent. Which gave the cursing a particularly scathing air that must have been especially withering on the recipient’s end. It definitely made Lanie wince. His shoulders were hunched like that could prevent anyone sitting within two rows from hearing him whisper-shouting at his colleague.

What an unenviable job that poor person has , Lanie imagined.

“Uh, sir?”

He was a big guy. Even in their larger, premium economy seats, he seemed cramped and, in his irritation, barely confined. Just the way his inoffensive oatmeal-colored cable-knit sweater strained across his broad bowed back suggested agitation as he leaned over the armrest. People glanced their way while stowing luggage and taking seats all around them.

“Excuse me?” she tried again, tapping him on the shoulder with a single finger.

His back eased, head rising. She took a half step back as he twisted to look up at her. Fierce and narrowed dark eyes regarded her behind tortoise frames from an angular, dark brown face, sweeping from her face to her midsection questioningly.

“Lanie! Be careful! Where’s the air marshal?” Ryan’s tinny voice called out as Lanie pressed her phone to her chest, praying her ample bosom might muffle the noise.

His eyes rose from her squawking phone, unfortunately nestled between her breasts, back to her face.

“Can you tell? Look for a white man who looks like he’s going to a ball game...”

His brows shifted inward, eyes squinting even more, before the forbidding expression eased into light amusement, his lips pursing to keep from laughing.

Lanie groaned, shoving the phone into her back pocket. “Um, sorry. My mother. You know how it is.”

He didn’t respond. No, apparently, he does not know how it is .

The amusement that was briefly on his face slipped back into its fetters, returning to whatever place a clearly joyless guy like him kept it caged.

“Yes, um, can you shift your case for me so that I can put my bag in there too?” She pointed a finger upward at the bin and his eyes finally left her face to follow it, comprehending.

“Dash, hold.” He turned fully toward her, examining the carry-on at her feet before returning to her face once again. “Is there some reason you couldn’t do that yourself?”

The words came out of his mouth in a velvety bass. But his tone was as icy off the phone as on. She got flashes of Mr. Spock, Star Trek ’s emotionless Vulcan.

“If it needs shifting, then. Shift. It.”

Lanie rocked back in surprise, nearly bumping into the person in the aisle seat behind her. Her mouth closed, before opening again. “I—I didn’t want to...”

Down the aisle, a man took a suitcase from the woman standing beside him and set it in the compartment above her head. But the jerk in front of Lanie only followed her gaze, waiting for her to finish speaking.

Typical. Lanie didn’t know why she even bothered. She shook her head. But then surprisingly, he sighed, unbuckling himself to rise.

“I—I just didn’t want to touch your stuff. I’m sorry,” Lanie stammered as he moved.

“What are you apologizing for?” he snapped in the same brusque manner he’d said everything else, like her explanation was as ridiculous as her request. He shifted his items and then reached down for her carry-on.

“No, I didn’t need your help with that, I just wanted...” Lanie began to object before trailing off as he cut her a glance that made her feel like a child speaking out of turn. She stroked her earlobe and watched silently as he picked up her case and placed it neatly beside his own, snapping the bin shut with finality and an aggrieved sigh. “Wait,” she said far too loudly, startling him as he began to sit back down.

He paused, brows raised, clearly at the tail end of whatever limited patience he had. “There’s something else I can do for you?”

“Yeah, you could get the hell out of my way so I can sit down,” she muttered.

“Excuse me?” he asked, but he’d heard her alright. The smirk was back.

“Um, I said, this is my row too. I’ve got the window. Sorry.”

He stepped to one side, holding out a hand and ushering her in. Still, it wasn’t what anyone could mistake for polite or chivalrous despite appearances to the contrary.

Lanie stepped past him into the window seat with a quiet groan.

“Right,” he restarted his conversation, dismissing her. “Dash? You still there?”

This was going to be a very long flight.