Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
HAILEY
I t takes a full-on elbow hit to drag my attention away from the unopened text on my screen. That’s what I get for booking this flight last night and getting stuck with an aisle seat. I never fly.
Travel has not been on my list of to-dos the last few years, unlike being close to home.
Even on my best day here, McCall, with its small-town cozy cabins and endless blue sky, is always on the forefront of my mind.
But who am I kidding. The landscape has nothing to do with why I quit my job on a whim this week. An EMT position opened up on Iron Summit, and I put in my notice with the University of Utah Hospital before even applying for the position.
Who does that? Someone desperate enough, I guess.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m moving back there to be close to him . And I’m sure that overstuffed bag from the aisle won’t be my last wakeup call reminding me how pathetic it is to leave everything at the drop of a hat for someone who doesn’t want me around .
A frustrated huff echoes behind me, and I abandon my phone in my lap to see what all the fuss is about. A man with carry-ons stacked on his forearms like bracelets towers over a senior lady with a petite frame. His right arm locks at the elbow as he extends a flimsy piece of paper in front of her face.
“There it is!” she exclaims, grabbing it by the corner. It shakes beneath her unsteady fingertips as she studies it inches from her nose.
“Oh, for cripes’ sake,” she complains, moving it back and forth like it’s under the seat of a microscope. “Do they always use twelve-point font on these things?”
He cranes his neck, surveying the rows of seats near the front of the plane, and I sink a little lower.
The sight of… something causes him to smirk, and a dimple the size of a crater sinks into his right cheek. My heart dips at the sight. He is window-display good-looking. In fact, I bet he’s modeled for a Lululemon swim line with a tan like that.
“Good news!” he exclaims. “You’re in row two!”
The lady studies her ticket with a confused stare. “Isn’t that first class? I can’t afford to be in the front.”
“Well…” He lifts her off the ground like a statue and pivots her 180 degrees, bags tilt-a-whirling at his sides. He ushers her along in an impatient push. “It looks like today is your lucky day.”
Why is this guy in such a hurry? In fact, his eyes are flitting around the cabin in the world’s most nervous dance. I’ve memorized this look. It’s the same one every first date I’ve ever been on gives right after they feed me the famous line. The one about how their dog’s been stuck inside their apartment all day and needs a bathroom break. They scan the restaurant, flagging the nearest waiter for the check. Then they hightail it home to troll their dating apps in search of a person who will actually put out in the same evening. Yep, that’s the one .
I, on the other hand, take things slow. And I won’t apologize for it. Too many shady characters out there, and this guy is giving that vibe. I bet he’s been on the giving end of enough one-night stands to sink a ship.
The elderly woman grabs his arm to get his attention and points at her boarding pass.
“Does it happen to be a window seat?”
He beams. “Dolores. Dolores. Dolores.” One of his bags knocks against a lucky downturned head as he wraps his arm around her shoulders. “Is it ever!”
I stifle a giggle. If he thinks they’re going to work their way toward the front of this plane with ease, he’s got another thing coming. A linebacker with some of the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen does not stand a chance in this pencil-thin walkway. At least he’s offering an apology to every person they squeeze by.
I have to hang halfway into the aisle to continue watching their adorable sitcom after they’ve passed me. But it’s a happy distraction from the reality waiting in my lap. Even if it might guarantee me another shoulder collision.
“May I?” he asks from her new seat assignment, gesturing to the mangled-looking suitcase under his right bicep. A bicep that’s barely contained under the sleeve of his T-shirt.
She nods and he hoists it into the empty overhead bin one-handed. The hem of his crewneck rises an inch, exposing a sliver of bronzed skin along his belt line. It’s August. Skin that pigmented is not surprising. But the guy looks like he spends all of his time outside with a shirt off.
I fan my face. Good grief, is it hot in here? The only other time I’ve ever been on an airplane I got cold. Hence the cowlneck sweater in the prime of summer. But I reach for the nozzle above my head anyway, twisting it and finding relief from the draft of musty air that fans my bangs.
I hear the latch of the overhead compartment click shut and peek at them one last time, unable to help myself. Her glasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose, hanging on for dear life at the turned-up tip. She fumbles with her seat belt. Her uneasy steward bobbles his head between her struggling hands and the open door next to the cockpit.
He snatches both sides of the belt in a hurried grasp. “Let me help you with that.”
My heart does another little nosedive in my chest watching him shackle them together for her.
Even if he’s acting like a frantic mess, he’s not leaving until she’s completely settled. That gesture alone says a lot about a person. I would know. It’s the one thing every man who has ever stepped into my life has lacked. There’s always a “good reason” why they can’t stick around.
By the time he gets her all situated, she asks him, “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The girl, honey. The one you’re waiting for.” She chortles at his ignorance, and the corners of his mouth droop. He checks the boarding bridge for the millionth time.
Is that it? Is he getting stood up?
“I better get to my seat. Enjoy that window.” He pats her arm.
When he dodges into the flow of traffic, I launch at the flight manual in the seat pocket in front of me, stuffing my phone between my knees. I’d rather him not notice my gawking if I can help it.
I open the tri-fold card. Life vest operation. Emergency exit locations. Securing an oxygen mask. Bold text with black lettering jumps off the page and tattoos itself across my retinas. The concept that this plane could go down in a body of water at any point terrifies me. A knot tightens in the pit of my stomach. The second sign that my anxiety is creeping in. The first is that unread text message I’m avoiding. If I don’t get this feeling under control, I could really embarrass myself on this flight.
“Excuse me.”
The laminated card flops toward my chest as rock-hard shins brush past my knees, filing in toward the window. I don’t have to see his face to recognize that deep voice. The hot guy from the aisle is officially my new seatmate.