Barbie
The hour-long flight out to Vegas has been a slow-crawling slog so far. One I want to go by as quickly as possible, because turbulence freaks me out. That and the guy seated next to me will not stop talking about how they are watching me through my laptop.
I’m not sure who they are, and I don’t even want to know.
I simply want to respond to my emails in peace.
Especially after I’ve finally received a response months after submitting my application, and there are many forms sent to my inbox earlier today I need to fill out if I’m serious about the position.
The guy doesn’t seem to get the memo, since he keeps spouting more lines about them trying to steal my face.
At least he doesn’t expect me to engage in a conversation with him. I’ll gladly be a sounding board for him and all of his conspiracy theories, as long as I don’t have to say anything.
By the time the plane lands in Vegas, my work laptop is stashed in my backpack and I’m figuring out how to grab my carry-on suitcase when I, in all of my five-foot-three glory, cannot reach the overhead compartment.
“Don’t let them steal your identity, Barbie.”
A flicker of terror threads through my veins as I glance sideways at him, and my lips form something that’s not really a smile given how nervous and panicky I’m feeling. Even more so when he grabs my pink suitcase from above and doesn’t hand it over to me, still holding onto it with a firm grip.
“Get out of the way,” someone snaps from down the aisle, and I take the opportunity to yank my suitcase out of his hand.
“Know that they’re always watching you,” he says, and my nervous little smile is all I can offer him while I wait for him to leave so I can exit the plane. Way after he’s gone, of course.
He probably saw my name while I was filling out some legal docs, I tell myself. It doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, I’m beyond terrified at the idea I’ll run into him again when I leave the plane and find him waiting for me.
Luckily, he’s nowhere in sight. Still, I’m twice as cautious and alert while I rush toward my next flight because the company, cheap as they are, booked my eight-hour connecting flight with the shortest layover period.
I do not want to sit next to him for one-third of an entire day while he finally clues me in on who they are.
I don’t see him anywhere while I board the plane, and once my pulse slows down just a smidge, I keep an eye out for my seat. There’s an empty row my gaze snares on, and I’m so elated when I reach the section and get the confirmation that one of those seats is mine.
Peering up at the overhead compartment, I’m uncertain how I’m going to stow my suitcase away without playing a stupid game of basketball when a smooth, low-timbre voice asks, “Need a hand?”
“If you could,” I say over my shoulder, and then I tip my head back to make eye contact with the guy standing behind me, and oh.
Please, God, be nice to me and have him sit down next to me for this flight. Oh, and if he could be single, live in California, and fall in love with me in the next eight hours, that would be swell.
Let it be known that I am a sucker for a nice smile, and this guy has the cutest laughter lines I’ve ever seen. They crease the corners of his dark brown eyes and crinkle even further when a pair of dimples forms around his crooked grin.
“It might make things go a lot smoother if you hand it over,” he teases, and heat blazes across my cheeks while I resist the urge to giggle or blurt out my phone number and tell him I’m free after this Sunday and possibly the rest of my life if he wants to have dinner with me.
I usually have more decorum than this. I’m not usually Schoolgirl Crush Barbie.
He takes my suitcase, and it should also be known that I’m an arms girl because I’m watching his biceps strain in his tight, heathered green shirt while he stows it away for me.
I’m not the only one. The older woman in the row behind mine is checking him out, to put it lightly, and she shamelessly licks her lips like she’s starving and he’s the last meal she’s about to have. Her husband, as well.
“Thanks for the assist,” I say, and I’m mentally waving goodbye to the hundreds of children we could have had in another life when he hikes his chin and turns his back to me. It’s for the best.
Sure, he’s fit, easy on the eyes, and super swoony just from putting away the carry-ons for the grandmothers in the aisle seats across from me without them having to ask for help, but there’s no way he’s single. Guys like him are usually locked down from the get-go.
I take my seat and pray that the they’re watching you guy isn’t about to show up just then when he looks my way again, and I swear time slows down around us. The cabin fades into a backdrop.
“Fancy running into you again.” Another crooked grin sneaks out, and I huff out a snort while he slides into the seat next to mine.
“Are you sure about that?” I tease. “For all we know, I’m actually the bane of your existence, and you just don’t know it yet.”
“Unless you’re the reason why my laptop got dropkicked,” he deadpans, and my brows crash together in confusion, “then no. You’re not the bane of my existence.
” When he sees the expression overtaking my face, he lets out a wry chuckle.
“Some kid on my last flight broke my laptop. Shattered the screen and everything.”
“Oh, no,” I gasp. “I’m so sorry. And I thought I had it bad today—The guy on my last flight kept telling me they’re watching me through my webcam. Whatever that means.”
“Christ,” he mutters.
“I know.” I lean back and stare ahead. “It’s fine, though. I won’t have to deal with that again.”
“Are you sure about that?” he echoes. “What if I’m about to tell you they’re—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I warn him, and I’m struggling to keep a straight face while he holds my gaze with amusement gleaming in his dark eyes. “Don’t.”
“I won’t,” he says, and it’s right then that I notice there’s a scar on his cheekbone—a faint line across the smooth, taut, golden brown skin. “Promise.”
“I don’t know if I can believe you.” A playful smile curves the corners of my lips. “How can I trust the words of a stranger?”
“I can easily remedy that,” he says with a casual shrug. “Should I give you my full government name? The street I grew up on? The last four digits of my social security number?”
“Just the last four?” I tsk. “You’re not going to give me the whole thing?” My words come out a little bit more breathy than intended, and I’m not sure if I should back off with the flirting when the laughter lines make a reappearance around his eyes.
Without warning, he leans in, and my breath catches in my throat when his lips come oh so close to the tip of my ear; his voice rough and low as he whispers, “Not until the third date.”
There’s a brief pause before we both erupt into laughter, and I slap my hand across my nose and mouth to stop the giggle-snort that threatens to escape me. It’s no use. I giggle-snort so hard, I’m smothering my face with both hands to muffle the ungodly noise.
“That. Was. So. Lame.”
“I’m not the one—” He exaggerates a series of loud snorting sounds, snickering when I elbow him gently in the ribs.
“Good luck getting a third date,” I tell him, and his dimples return. “I doubt you’ll even be able to get a second date.”
His grin widens, and God, I truly am a goner for nice smiles. “What if I promise not to talk about them watching—”
“Are you trying to negotiate dates with me? Is this where I find out you’re a lawyer?”
“No, I’m not a lawyer,” he says. “Are you a lawyer?”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “But my future brother-in-law is. I’m only a—” I hesitate, my words lingering on my tongue as I catch his gaze.
I don’t want to blame the they’re always watching you guy for freaking me out, but I’m still on edge.
The last thing I need is to give the guy way too much personal information about myself and he turns out to be way worse.
“You’re a…” he prompts, and I spare him a breezy half-smile.
“Trust me, you’ll be bored to hear what my actual job is,” I say, and it’s not like I’m wrong.
Project lead is such a boring job. I’ve already witnessed dozens of eyes glaze over when I’ve tried to explain what my day-to-day operation is like. Trust me, I too become bored when I talk about it.
But if I’m vague and say I work in insurance, suddenly people ask me for discounts even though I don’t work on the retail side.
And if I mention I’m employed at Green Checks—infamously known as Grinch Cheeks for how ass their products and coverages are—suddenly I’m Sellout Barbie or Capitalist Barbie.
“How about we pretend we’re crushing it at our dream jobs?”
“Supermodel?”
I snort so loud that I clap my hand over my mouth and roll my eyes at him. “No. Marine biologist.”
“What made you decide to become a marine biologist?” he asks, and I’m grateful he’s playing along with me.
“Penguins,” I say. “And otters. My second grade class took a field trip to the aquarium, and let’s just say I was the only one who got all the aquatic animals eating out of my hand.”
“That was the only thing you put on your resume before they hired you, right?” He grins. “Penguins in a bold, size-forty font.”
“Actually, I have a bachelor’s in marine biology,” I say, and he nods along because we’re both technically still roleplaying, even though I don’t think he realizes I’m telling the truth.
Maybe it’s for the best. I’m in the mood to manifest my dream by talking about it out loud, and not let reality crush my spirit.
“I was working on my master’s, too,” I add with a cheery laugh.
“Damn.” He lets out a low whistle. “I don’t think I could have stuck around for a master’s. Although, my degree is totally irrelevant to my job.”
“Circus clown?” I guess, my eyelash extensions fluttering innocently when he stares at me with the most withering look I’ve ever bore witness to. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.”
“A pilot,” he says dryly.