Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
RIVER
I send my partner a text to have the notes for our meeting tomorrow sent to my email so I can prep on the flight. I had tried to push back this meeting, but with no luck. We’ve been working on this particular contract for too long and I need this deal done.
I get a thumbs-up reply.
“We’ll now begin boarding flight four-thirty-seven nonstop service to John F. Kennedy International Airport. First class passengers and anyone needing assistance may begin boarding now,” the woman who was of no help earlier says over the intercom.
I walk up to the podium and hold up my phone, she scans it.
“Have a nice flight,” she says in a way that I know is meant as a sarcastic version of “I hope your flight sucks."
“Thanks,” I mutter, making my way down the narrow hallways to the plane.
At least I have an aisle seat. I stop at row five and put my bag in the overhead compartment.
I’ll take my laptop out later. I need a drink and a nap.
The seats are large and turn into partial beds.
The row is partly hidden and there’s even a curtain for privacy.
It would be perfect if I had it to myself.
“Excuse me,” a voice comes from behind me.
I turn and my gaze travels down and lands on a petite blonde with her hair piled up on top of her head.
Fuck, she looks young. Great, now I have to share my seating area with a college student.
And one that looks like the young woman I asked to be removed from the VIP lounge last weekend after she and her friends were acting like drunk college kids.
What the fuck? Someone is using daddy’s money.
I step to the side, and she slides into her window seat and places her bag under the seat in front of her.
I take my seat and motion for the flight attendant. “Can I get a scotch on the rocks, please?”
She nods politely and looks over at the young woman. “And for you, miss?”
“Oh, uh, I’ll have a Chardonnay,” she says.
Her voice. Damn, her voice doesn’t sound like she’s a college student.
It’s low and sexy as fuck. I glance at her quickly.
She’s pretty in a natural, no-plastic-surgery way.
Her cheeks are rosy and dotted with freckles.
Her long eyelashes don’t even look fake.
She has a cute little nose and plump lips with gloss on them.
I wonder for a brief moment how they might look wrapped around my cock.
I could use the distraction. This week has been… horrible.
A mother with two kids bumps into me while walking down the aisle, pulling me away from thoughts of my seatmate. She takes no notice and continues. I hear her yelling at the little boy who stops to look at every person already seated. I glare at him, and he runs forward.
I’m not in the mood for children. Hell, I’m not in the mood for anyone.
“Here you go,” the flight attendant says as she sets our drinks down.
The woman next to me raises her glass to those sultry lips and I watch her drink. She glances out the window, ignoring me. Well, at least she won’t bother me.
I drink my beverage. It’s not exactly top-shelf liquor, but it works. I just want to get home and shower. I need to clean off this week physically and mentally.
My phone pings, and I glance down at it.
Mom: Did your father even come by the apartment?
I groan. I can hear her saying that in her Southern accent. An accent that I share, having spent most of my childhood in the South.
My grandfather died a week ago. My father should have come to clear out his apartment and attend the funeral, but instead, I got stuck doing it.
My sister is eight months pregnant and couldn’t make the trip.
I seldom speak to my father since my parents divorced twenty years ago.
He’s an asshole. But his father was a great man.
He would fly over to visit us every year and pay for us to come to visit him in the summers. I had so many good memories in Paris.
Me: No, Mom. Yvette is going to get the rest of the apartment cleaned out. I shipped the important stuff home, and the estate buyer came by yesterday and will get the expensive items picked up next week.
Yvette was my grandfather’s caregiver for the past five years.
I tried to offer her many items from my grandfather’s home, but she wouldn’t accept anything except an old typewriter that my grandfather liked to use when writing his books.
Pierre Dumont, the famous mystery author, was no more.
And more importantly, the only man I ever truly looked up to is now gone, nothing more than a distant memory. It still doesn’t feel real.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain, Mark Tennison. We’ll be pushing back from the gate shortly,” the captain says.
“Can I take your glasses, please?” the flight attendant says.
“I’m not done yet,” I state, not handing over the last of my drink.
“Sir, I can bring you another once we are in the air,” she explains.
I glare at her before downing my drink and handing it to her.
I hear the woman next to me mutter something under her breath.
“Excuse me?” I ask turning to her.
“Nothing,” she mutters and looks away from me. Oh, it’s going to be like that. I sigh. I don’t need this. Not now. Maybe I can find another seat once we’re in the air. I look around, but there isn’t one available seat. What the hell? Why are so many people wanting to go to New York of all places?
The flight crew secures the cabin and goes about the safety spiel as we start moving toward the runway. They dim the cabin lights, and we take off.
I watch France grow fainter as we climb into the sky.
The woman next to me also looks out the window.
I watch her throat constrict as she swallows.
Her hand trembles slightly where she grips the armrest. She’s nervous.
I wonder why for a half second. It doesn’t matter.
What matters is figuring out a way to keep my mind from wandering for the next eight hours and thirty minutes.
I wonder if they have any good movies available.
I should have downloaded something onto my laptop.
I glance down and freeze. In the woman’s bag, sticking out of the side pocket is a book.
Lies, Suspicions, and Haunted Truths by Pierre Dumont.
Fuck. What are the odds? The fasten seat belt signs turn off and I watch as the flight attendants start working on getting things situated for what I assume is our soon-to-be-served meal.
“Good afternoon, again. Our expected flight time is eight hours and thirty minutes. We expect a smooth flight. So, sit back and enjoy,” the captain says.
“Another drink?” the flight attendant asks.
I nod. “Same,” I say. She nods and looks at the woman next to me.
“Yes, please,” the woman says. “Can I have a Merlot?”
“Of course,” the flight attendant states.
She leaves and the woman looks over at me. “Uh, do you mind if I…I need to use the restroom,” she explains. I look over at her. Her cheeks are flushed.
I don’t respond but pull my legs back to allow her to pass. She gets up, and as she stands, I catch a whiff of her perfume. Fuck. She smells good, really good. I lean into the aisle and watch her ass sway as she walks to the small corridor reserved for the first-class passengers’ restrooms.
She opens a door and disappears. I use the opportunity to grab my laptop from the bag in the overhead compartment. I might as well get some work done. Maybe that can distract me for a hot minute from thinking about this shitty week, and from thinking inappropriate thoughts about my seatmate.
I’m just about to sit back down when she’s standing in front of me. I motion for her to enter. She slides in and takes her seat. I sit and pull out my tray table, setting up my laptop as the flight attendant sets down our drinks.
“Would like chicken cordon bleu or steak for your meal?” she asks.
“I’ll have the chicken,” I state.
The woman next to me nods. “Same, please,” she says.
I watch as she sips her Merlot and then reaches for the book, my grandfather’s book. I return to reviewing my meeting notes for a while, until my eyes tire.
The plane shakes with some turbulence and I watch her clench her wineglass in one hand and the armrest with her other as she lets the book fall to her lap. Well, well, it appears that my irritating little seatmate is not a fan of flying. Something about that brings me a little joy.
I glance at her face, and I suddenly feel slightly guilty. She looks petrified. With another sigh, I decide to put my pain aside for a moment. My grandfather would want me to speak to a fan. I’ll do this for him, but only for him.
“Is it a good book?” I ask.
The woman turns to me, wide-eyed, a look of shock on her face as if my speaking to her was more surprising than the existence of aliens or monsters.
“Oh, uh, yes. It is,” she answers and looks away from me toward the window. There’s nothing to look at now, just clouds, so I know she’s ignoring me. But I also notice her hand isn’t as clenched until the plane bounces a bit. All of a sudden, she grabs my arm that’s lying on the armrest between us.
“Sorry, folks, we seem to have hit a pocket of air. I’m going to turn on the fasten seat belt sign for a minute if you can return to your seats,” the captain says.
The woman’s face pales.
“What’s it about?” I ask, trying to distract her because quite frankly she looks green, and I don’t want projectile vomit on this suit.
“Huh?” she asks, glancing at me with those big eyes again.
“The book,” I say, motioning to it on her lap.
“Oh, it’s a mystery. The author actually just passed away a few weeks ago. It’s very sad. He was an amazing writer,” she says. Her words hit me like a sucker punch. I nod as I try to focus on anything other than my grandfather’s death.
I glance down at my arm where her hand grips it. Her gaze follows mine and she realizes she’s gripping my arm. Mortification rolls over her features, and I have to fight the smirk that threatens my face.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, pulling her hand away as if my arm is suddenly made of lava.
I brush the fabric and look down at her. “It’s fine. Not a fan of flying?”
She shrugs. “No,” she finally admits.
“Bad flying experience?” I ask.
She swallows and shakes her head, looking around as if afraid someone else might hear her. I raise an inquisitive eyebrow. I watch as she considers her answer, but eventually, she speaks.
“My boyfriend was killed in a plane crash three years ago,” she says.
Now, I’m the shocked one. Maybe there’s more to this woman than I thought.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say because I truly am. What a terrible way to go, I think.
She nods. “Thank you,” she whispers so softly that I barely hear her.
“I take it you don’t fly often, then?” I ask.
“No,” she replies, her knuckles still gripping the armrest. This is going to be a long flight, but maybe distracting this slightly irritating beauty will be a good distraction from the thoughts I’d rather not have.