Chapter 6
Six
Pen
Strangely, I feel hungover when I arrive at the airport.
I hadn’t had much to drink at the Lucks’ house, and I went to bed right after my sandwich with August. Even so, my head is muzzy and my body sluggish as I pull my carry-on toward the check-in kiosk.
The airport is fairly empty, and I’m hoping for an equally empty flight so I can sleep off whatever this crappy feeling is.
My mood sinks a little lower. I can deny it no longer: the sticky itch of failure is upon me. My grandparents’ house will go on sale and be lost to me.
Worse things have happened. Much worse. If viewed from the outside, I’m complaining for no reason. I’ll benefit financially in ways most people never dreamed of. I tell myself this regularly. Eventually it has to sink in.
I’m staring blindly at a row of kiosks when there’s a voice at my ear. “Hey.”
As though zapped, I whip around.
“August!” It comes out in an unfortunate squeak of surprise.
“Hi.” That gorgeous smile of his unfurls slow but sure. It does funny things to my insides. Worse, though, is the way his sudden appearance has somehow brightened everything and happiness flows through me like liquid light.
Stranger still? He seems happily surprised as well.
His gaze travels over my face like he can’t believe I’m here. “I didn’t know you were on this flight.”
“Why would you? We never exchanged travel plans.”
“I don’t remember you being this sassy.” He peers at me in mock suspicion. “Did you grow into it or something?”
“No, I take sassy supplements at bedtime. I mean, ‘if you haven’t got your health—’”
“‘—you haven’t got anything.’” He inclines his head toward mine. “I was subjected to The Princess Bride too.”
“One is not subjected to The Princess Bride. One watches with glee or one hates it and is resigned to a lifetime of wallowing in freakish misery.”
“Cute. The way you keep sliding in those quotes.”
“It’s a gift. And a curse.”
“You did it again,” he points out.
“Did I?” I so did.
August nods. “That was from Monk.”
“Hmm . . . Are you sure?”
“Yes. Mom loves that show. She watches it every time she does a deep housecleaning. Says it ‘channels’ her sanitation energies.” He studies me for a beat, and a little line forms between his brows. “You don’t seem pleased to see me.”
“What? No!” I wave my hand. “I’m totally fine with it.”
If he only knew.
“Faint praise.”
“Well, I’m not going to gush, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“No.” August straightens. “No . . . I don’t want that.”
“But?”
“Not a ‘but’ exactly. More a why? As in, why do you keep looking at me like I’m a bad stink caught in the wind? Because I’ll have you know, I shower every day. Twice when I’m working. Which makes me a fairly clean individual.”
It’s cute the way he’s rambling, as though he’s nervous. I’ve never actually seen August nervous. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s feeling chatty. But I enjoy it regardless.
“And,” he concludes with a proud lift of the chin, “I’ve been told I smell pretty damn good.”
Truth? He smells great. Always has. Pure delicious pheromones. But that little taunt does something to me. Something wicked that’s not like me at all.
I tilt my head, considering. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. Women love the way I smell—” He lets out a strangled sound as I rise to my toes until the tip of my nose touches the warm curve of his neck to draw in his scent.
I’d acted on pure impulse, wanting to be that girl: the fun one who disarms men with her charm. But I’m an amateur, way out of my depth. My body tightens like a clenched fist, hot and quick. All rational thought falls by the wayside.
He’s warm and solid, and the scent of his skin makes me dizzy. My eyes flutter closed as I swallow hard and try not to fall into him. Because I want that. I want to lean against August’s long, hard body and just burrow.
The moment stretches, both of us sort of swaying. My heart beats so hard and fast—he must hear it. Panic follows. He’s going to know what he does to me, and I’ll never live it down. Worse, if I don’t move I’m going to kiss his neck, and where would that leave me? Total humiliation.
My breath gusts out, and he shivers, little goose bumps rising on his skin. For a second, I swear he’s turning his head, lowering it to get closer. I can’t breathe. Maybe I’ll faint and end up in an inelegant sprawl right here on the airport floor.
The horror of that image has me falling back on my heels with an audible thud. We stare at each other, August with his brow knit as though he can’t believe my cheek, me with what I’m going to assume is red-faced awkwardness.
I clear my throat. “You smell . . . ah, great. But for the record. I never thought you smelled bad. And I don’t find you annoying. That expression is just my face doing its thing.”
His brow clears. “For the record, it’s a great face.”
“I . . . oh.” What???
“I know you thought I wasn’t serious when I said you were attractive last night. But I was. You’re very pretty, Penelope.”
I’m in very real danger of giggling. Or swallowing my tongue.
Focus, woman. Be that girl again.
“Is this a come-on?”
“Do you want it to be?”
“Cut it out, August.”
A frown flits across his face. He’s going to argue. But he retreats like a pro. “All right. I’ll behave. Besides, I have something I want to talk to you about, so stop distracting me with your cuteness.”
I have no idea how to respond. I simply nod.
August turns to an unoccupied kiosk. “You got a QR code to check in?”
“Uh . . . Oh. Yes.”
“Let me see.”
Not thinking, I hand him my phone with the code at the ready. He deftly signs me in, and before I can blink, he’s upgrading me to first class.
“Hey—”
“Don’t worry. I’m paying for it.” He slips his card into the machine while I flail around trying to stop him. “I want to talk to you, and we’ll have more privacy this way.”
“That’s all great, August. But you still need to ask me if it’s okay.”
The little frown wrinkle between his brows returns. “In what world would anyone prefer coach over first class?”
“You got me there. But it costs money—”
“I’m paying for it—”
“And some people—me in this particular instance—don’t want to feel beholden, especially over something they can’t afford.”
“Okay, I get that. And I know this will sound a bit—” he waves his hand “—whatever. But I have money. A lot. For me, in this particular instance, it’s the equivalent of buying you coffee. It ain’t fair, but it’s the truth.”
He hands me my boarding pass.
I blow out a breath. “Okay. But I’m buying you a drink on the plane.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the reciprocation.” His fingers lightly touch my elbow to move me along. “But the drinks are free in first class.”
“I knew that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll buy you a coffee when we land.”
“I look forward to it.”
August
The first-class seats on the flight from Boston to Los Angeles aren’t enormous private pods, but they are extra wide and lie flat if you prefer. More importantly, they are still arranged in two by two formation, so I can talk to Pen in relative privacy and comfort.
As someone who was six foot four by age eighteen, I’ve been shelling out the cash for upgrades since my first endorsement check came in.
I thank my paycheck every time I fly. The fact that anyone, regardless of size, has to cram into the medieval torture chamber known as coach is a social injustice that needs to be remedied.
How we as a society continue to stand for it is a mystery to me.
I digress.
Last night, we’d left things at a somewhat awkward place.
She’d offered me comfort: something I wanted more than I’d been prepared to acknowledge, and I’d hedged, withdrawn.
It disappointed her. I’d disappointed myself as well.
But it made certain things clear. First, I am through avoiding some truths in my life.
Second, I have found a solution for my problem.
It’s a huge risk that will most likely blow up in my face.
I can live with that; my life revolves around calculated risk.
This current risk all comes down to Penelope Morrow.
It’s adorable watching Pen quietly inspect her area.
She opens and shuts her seat cubby. Then opens it again to pull out the bottle of water provided, puts the water back, takes out the headset, looks it over, puts it away.
Next up is messing with the seat controls.
But only a little. Just enough to see how they work.
She catches me watching and discreetly tucks the quilted blanket back into the footbed in front of her. “I hate how much I like this.”
“Fucking sucks, doesn’t it?”
Shining brown eyes flash in indignation. “Right? Everyone should have this.”
“They should.”
“I should thank you, but I’m not sure I will. Because now I truly know what I’m missing.”
I’d put her in first class for the rest of her life if she’d let me, just for the simple pleasure of knowing she’d glow with this quiet happiness once there. But I know she wouldn’t allow it. Which is a downer.
She inhales sharply as though bracing herself. “I’ll just enjoy the moment.”
I certainly am.
We don’t get a chance to talk before takeoff.
Honestly, now that I have her here, I find myself hedging again.
Why the hell did I pick a plane trip to ask her?
I know why. My devious lizard brain figured it would be best to ask where she couldn’t walk out on me.
I never really considered the fact that I wouldn’t be able to escape either.
And she’s going to say no. Of course she’ll decline.
Despite her claims to the contrary, Penelope doesn’t like me very much.
Given that I’ve just maneuvered her here to spring an awkward as hell proposal on her, I wouldn’t blame her.
I adjust in my seat, accept the glass of champagne the flight attendant hands out . . . do anything but make eye contact with Pen. She’s already put her feet up and turned on her e-reader. All right, then. I pull out my phone and scroll through sports news.
The first article is about the chicken dance.
Fuck.
Champagne turns sour in my mouth. I set my phone down and rub at my sternum. A hard knot formed there weeks ago and won’t go away.
“Are you going to tell me what was so important that you paid for my upgrade?” Pen doesn’t look up from her book, but I know all her attention is on me.
“For the record, I would have upgraded you regardless. What kind of . . .” Friend? No, we’re not friends. Childhood relations? That sounds horrible. “. . . person would I be if I let you sit back there when I’m up here?”
A small smile curls her pink lips. With her oval face and shining brown hair shot with red-gold flowing around it, she’s a Botticelli. “You’re stalling. Sweet, but stalling.”
Sweet? I never.
“I decided I don’t want to talk about it now. We’ve got nearly six hours together.”
Pen sets the reader face down on her lap and turns toward me. “Thought that far ahead, did you?”
“Obviously.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Maybe it’s worse.” I pull at my collar. It’s a T-shirt but it smothers all the same.
Pen simply stares. She’s always done this. Looked at me with solemn brown eyes, so glossy and big, and fucking serene. I’d never been able to stand it, knowing that if I ever truly looked back, I would be lost.
I pick up my glass and swallow the dregs.
“You know,” she says, “this past day and a half is the most we’ve ever spoken to each other since we were little kids.”
“What? No.” I mentally try to recount all our past conversations. “It can’t . . . well, hell. It is, isn’t it?”
She nods, and a lock of hair slides along her cheek. My fingers twitch.
“That’s kind of shit, Penelope.”
Pen shrugs. The tiniest movement of her shoulders.
I clench my hand. “We’ve known each other our whole lives. We should have talked more than this.”
“Well, we know each other, but we were always going different directions, I suppose.”
And why was that?
I clear my throat. “Still.”
Her gaze lifts and collides with mine. I feel it in my solar plexus.
As strong as any blindside hit. A soft flush colors her cheeks.
Penelope is shy. I’ve known this in a vague way, but I didn’t truly know until now that being at ease with others doesn’t come naturally to her.
Pair that with my instinct to retreat anytime I encountered her disapproving expression, and you have one big, uncomfortable void.
“We didn’t really have any reason to talk,” she adds.
Another hit. I resist the urge to rub my chest again.
Glancing at her book, I take a breath and start. “I hate reading books. My mind wanders two sentences in. But I love audiobooks. I don’t know why it’s different, but I can let go and dive into the story when it’s audio.”
Her brow knits for a fraction of a second, then clears. “I’m the opposite. I read every chance I get but if I try to listen to audio or a podcast? Poof! I’m already gone.”
My grin is wide. “What’s your favorite book?”
Her nose wrinkles. “That’s like asking your mother who her favorite child is.”
“I know that’s me, so . . .”
“Whatever gets you through the day, August.”
I ignore the dramatic eye roll, even though it’s cute as hell.
“Okay, then. Favorite genre?”
“I like romance, fantasy, thrillers, mysteries . . . Depends on the story.”
“Huh. Me too.”
“Even romance?” She sounds highly dubious.
“Would you like me to discuss details?”
A sweet blush rises over her cheeks. “No.”
I chuckle at her quick reply. I like that blush and want to see more of it. “You sure? Because a man can learn a lot from—”
“La, la, laaa.” She puts her hands over her ears. “Not listening.”
With an exaggerated sigh, I move my seat back to get in line with hers. “Okay, okay. On to the big question. Anime?”
“Of course.”
“Dub or no dub?”
“No dub. Dubs are awful.”
“Agreed.”
She wings a brow. “I’d have thought you’d like the dub since you hate reading.”
I shrug. “My loathing of the dubbed voices overrides having to read the subtitles.”
“You are both cultured and reasonable.”
Laughing, we take it from there, talking about everything and nothing until the captain comes on the speakers to announce landing preparations. Pen, who has become totally relaxed, smiles over at me. It’s like sunlight at the end of a long tunnel.
“You never said what you wanted to ask me.”
“Oh, that.” I buckle my seat belt. “I wanted to know if you’d marry me.”