Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
QUINN
This plane is at no risk of going down in flames, and it’s probably an indication of mental instability that I’m depressed by that fact.
I had to leave.
I had to.
Did I though?
“Oh, fuck you, heart.” My mutter is low, full of self-directed venom. “I’m going to drown you in vodka.”
I don’t even like vodka, but it’s something Russians would drink, and Russia is a giant, icy tundra, and that reminds me of August.
Also, the ice cubes in my glass remind me of him. I poke one and then the other, watching them bob and float mournfully in my plastic cup. I had to pay seven bucks for this drink, and I’m going to make it an experience. Even if it’s a lonely, depressing one.
“Why so down? Your drink no good?”
This comment comes from my right side, and I’m slightly shocked there’s a person next to me.
Of course, I knew there was, in the general sense that this is a full flight.
But I didn’t truly acknowledge that there was a living, breathing human inches—okay, more like centimeters because this is coach—away from me.
“This drink is the only thing mildly good about this flight.” I know I sound like a grumbly, pouty teenager.
But what do I care? There’s no one here I’m trying to impress.
I’m not in a meeting with a client. And I’m not sitting in a delicious-smelling bakery or ice cream shop with the man of my dreams and sexual fantasies.
I’m surrounded by strangers, and I have zero motivation to pretend this is a fun time.
“The only good thing? You’re a heartbreaker. Seriously, I’m in pain over here.” The tone my seat neighbor uses reminds me of Sammy. Someone who’s used to charming women right out of their panties.
Maybe if the person beside me was August’s cousin, I’d attempt some banter. The Squid has his moments, and I know now that his flirting is mainly a ploy to make the people around him laugh.
But this guy isn’t Sammy, so I don’t bother to engage.
My mind sneaks immediately back to August. I mentally waver about heading down that trail, wondering about the safety of this flight if I were to become too immersed. But I reason that my failed desert excursion proved that just thoughts of him won’t cause an inferno.
As long as I keep my hands out of my pants, the plane engines shouldn’t erupt into fireballs.
I pluck an ice cube from my drink and hold it on my tongue, imagining I’m kissing my Ice Elemental. The sensation can’t compare. His chill is lovely, but August is so much more than his power to me.
I’d want August even if he were human.
I mean, I did, obviously, at one point. I wanted his handsome face and muscular body and the rough feel of his beard on my thighs.
But now I know that I really want him. I may even …
I may even love him.
It’s not just that he’s the icy yin to my fiery yang. If all I was looking for from a guy was a dampening component, I could’ve knocked on a Squid’s door.
August is more than the ice in his chest.
He’s a man who will find me snow in the middle of the summer.
He’s a man who will put his dreams on hold to help his parents keep theirs afloat.
He takes a woman to an ice rink on a first date rather than a club, looking to get her drunk and in his bed.
He’s the type of person who’s willing to go slow when fast is too dangerous.
He’ll wear a ridiculous shirt to make me feel comfortable.
That’s what he does. Almost every choice August makes is based on whether or not it will make the people around him happy.
I bet the most selfish thing he’s ever done was choose to leave Alaska and start his own business.
I can’t imagine how hard that was for him.
Will it be too hard to do a second time? Will I get a call from him in a week or so, telling me he’s not coming back?
The possibility isn’t ludicrous. Just heartbreaking.
I take another hearty sip from my cup, half surprised to find the heat of my body hasn’t melted the ice yet. That’s when I realize my internal fire is barely one smoldering ember.
Looks like the best way to keep a plane full of people safe is to make sure I’m good and depressed before boarding.
“I like the way you drink. Don’t even care what anyone thinks.”
And put me in a seat next to a guy who likes to neg women.
I doubt he realizes how his douchery is aiding in our flight safety. The guy’s brain is probably the physical manifestation of that horrendous shirt I asked August to wear.
I’m so tempted to tell my seat neighbor to fuck off, but I have another three hours strapped in next to him, so I pretend he’s a white noise machine and reach into my bag for the pocket sudoku August bought me.
“Come on. We can make this a fun flight. You might feel better if you smiled.”
Oh no, he didn’t. Hasn’t the male population grasped yet the sheer horribleness of that statement?
Despite my resolution to ignore him, I can’t help but snap back, “No. I think you would feel better if I smiled. But guess what. My facial muscles do not exist to give you pleasure.”
“Hey now.” The asshole holds up his hands as if he thinks he needs to act out a surrender in order to calm me down. Because not wanting to smile for him is so hostile. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”
“Feel free to stop putting in the effort. I’m not looking for any more friends.” Not ones who spend more time looking at my chest than in my eyes anyway.
As if he finally realizes his gaslighting tactics won’t work on me, a frown creases his mouth.
Objectively, I can admit that he’s a handsome guy. Dark eyes with thick lashes, paired with unruly black hair and a lean build, give him an almost-rock-star vibe. And rock-star arrogance too, I guess.
I prefer my men blond with icy eyes and Thor’s build.
No thanks, less-appealing Loki.
“Bitch,” he mutters, loud enough for me and maybe the woman in the window seat to his right to hear.
He’s lucky my powers align with my lust. If I were wired like Cat, this whole plane would be a flaming comet plunging to the earth.
“There it is.” I keep my voice at the same level he used, letting my disgust coat every word and the vodka fuel my rage.
“There are your true colors. That toxic sludge, bubbling just beneath the surface. You’re such a nice guy, aren’t you?
So nice until a pretty girl doesn’t want to hear your empty compliments.
Then you shed your nice-guy skin like the molting snake you are, and your fangs descend, dripping poison, looking for my fleshy underbelly to tear into.
Well, guess what, nice guy.” I lean in close, taking perverse pleasure in how wide his eyes grow at the menace in my voice.
“I was raised in the desert. When I see a snake, I don’t give it a chance to bite. I crush its skull under my heel.”
He averts his gaze and removes his arm from the armrest he manspread onto the second he sat down.
The retreat should be a success.
But the righteous triumph dampens as quickly as it flared hot, leaving me dark and angry and on the verge of crying.
August isn’t a nice guy.
Nice guys are a front.
August is kind. He’s sweet. He’d never tell me to smile when I felt like frowning. Instead, he’d work himself ragged, trying to find a way to make me happy again.
And now that I know how amazing of a man can exist, all others seem offensive in comparison.
Doesn’t help that the asshole next to me is actually offensive.
The flight attendant approaches again with her cart, and I flag her down. With no idea what their schedule is, I want to make sure to grab a refill so I can make it through the flight without punching my seat neighbor in the face.
“What can I get you, miss?”
“Another vodka with ice, please.” Just because I’m miserable doesn’t mean I don’t have manners.
A throat clears loudly to my right, and my whole body tenses.
Slowly, I turn, expecting the douchey-smile demander to start spouting a story about how I’m already tipsy and in no need of another drink.
But I realize the person looking for attention is the middle-aged businesswoman in the window seat.
She extends a hand to the flight attendant, credit card pinched in her fingers.
“I’ll have the same and charge her drink to me.” She flicks her beautiful blue eyes my way and offers a wink. “Craving some of that anti-venom myself.”
The snake between us lets out an offended huff, then goes to recline his chair with an angry jerk. Of course, the gesture loses any type of power when he only goes back an inch.
A small amount of my unhappiness slips away when the woman and I share a commiserating smile. It’s nice to have an ally against the jerks of the world.
With the second drink in my hand and a number puzzle in front of me, I do my best to block out the anxious, needy thoughts crowding my mind.
Not that it does much good.