Chapter 1 #2
I gulp loudly, my pulse sprinting at the speed of sound as I’m hit with a wave of beauty: long, shiny black hair, dimples for days, and pouty red lips so full I can’t look away.
She looks like a heroine from a dark gothic movie.
Her face belongs on the big screen and on a big fuck-off billboard.
Although maybe that’s not a great idea. She might have cars crashing into one another on the freeway because, yeah, she’s that fucking beautiful. A showstopper. Or car crasher perhaps.
That perfume she’s wearing smells like exotic cherry combined with something else I can’t quite make out. Whatever it is, I’m already addicted.
“I don’t like flying.” Her small voice stands in stark contrast to her bold, haphazard entrance. She blinks rapidly, her face filled with fear, and she looks like she’s about to cry, her bottom lip trembling slightly.
It’s brave of her to admit, and I admire that she did, even though she doesn’t know me.
My brothers have always said I have one of those trustworthy faces, so people tend to share their deepest thoughts with me.
The way she’s blinking her brown Bambi-sized eyes has my throat drying up, and I have to cough to make my throat work.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I’m worried about her.
“Do you need anything?” I add before she replies, dumbfounded by the way she makes my chest tighten.
I can’t remember ever having such a reaction to a woman before.
Not even my ex, but the less I think about her, the better.
“Water,” she replies huskily, then licks her plump lips.
Her response makes me raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Are you sure you don’t want something stronger to calm your nerves?” Vodka? Whiskey? A brewery, perhaps?
“Just water, please,” she replies, her shoulders stiffening when one of the overhead compartments is slammed shut.
Her nerves are on a knife-edge, and she’s more tense than I first thought.
If she’s that scared, she should have taken travel-anxiety medication, which I’ve heard works great for fearful fliers and puts them to sleep for hours. But for such a short flight, maybe that’s not the best idea.
I catch a flight attendant’s eye, hold up one finger, and ask her to bring a bottle of water for the woman in 2D.
“Thank you,” my neighbor replies in a low tone, her breathing still unsteady as she pushes out her words as best she can.
“Do you want to put your things away?” I would offer to do it, but she’s skittish, and she doesn’t know me. If she lacks trust in the pilot to fly this thing without crashing, there’s no way she’ll trust me, a stranger, to put my hands on her belongings.
“I’ll put them away in a minute,” she confirms, a slight crack of unease in her tone, her shoulders still rigid as a board.
The silence stretches between us like an elastic band, and still, she remains motionless, pinning me with her wide stare and biting her bottom lip nervously.
There’s no awkwardness, but there’s a strange energy between us that I can’t understand, which makes me want to erase all her fears.
Giving her space and time, I wait another beat before suggesting, “Would you like me to help put your things away?” I nod encouragingly and, to my surprise, she nods back.
I reach over and make a “gimme” gesture, cooing softly and encouraging her to loosen her grip on her purse handles, which look like they’re straining under her hold.
If she squeezes any tighter, she’ll crack the leather.
“We can place your purse under the seat in front of you.” I point downward. “But can you let go of it?”
She inhales a deep, stuttered breath and slowly releases her treasured possessions from her clutches, as if they are her life saver, her long, shiny, black manicured nails appearing one by one.
I’ve heard of people being afraid of flying, but I’ve never been seated next to someone with the phobia before, and she’s not just scared, she’s petrified.
To avoid startling her, I gently remove her laptop-style purse from her lap, place it on the floor, and slide it into the tight space by her feet. It’s then I notice how tall her black, glossy heels are and how alluring her back-seam stockings look, reminiscent of a 1940s pin-up.
I suddenly want to know everything about this woman, from where she went to school to what her favorite color is…
Black, I think, given the color of her skirt and silk blouse…
purse… nails… The thought of her scraping those long nails over my skin while wrapping her sexy heels around my ears makes all the blood rush to the end of my dick… Fuck’s sake.
Pull yourself together, Cole.
Of all the times for my cock to decide to come alive, finally, for the first time in months, now is not the right moment. But it would seem all he wants is her.
I want her.
Crossing my legs to hide my semi, I then shake my head to dismiss my inappropriate thoughts.
I softly ask her to give me her jacket so I can put it in the overhead compartment.
After I put it away, I encourage her to turn off her phone that she’s been holding on to for dear life and set it on the table in front of her.
As if she’s a zombie, she follows my instructions with a slow and tentative pace just as the flight attendant arrives with the fresh bottle of water I requested.
“Would you like a glass of champagne, ma’am?” the flight attendant asks the nervous flier next to me.
“Water is just fine,” she replies, grabbing the bottle, unscrewing the lid, and almost drinking half of it as if she’s been stranded on a desert island for months and is in desperate need of hydration.
“Can you bring another bottle of water for the lady, please?” I ask, knowing she’ll need it.
“Certainly, sir. Is there anything I can get you?” The flight attendant tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and smiles wider than a full moon.
I clock the name on her name tag and address her directly. “Yes, Karen, can I also have a bottle of water, please, and that will be all. Thank you.”
Karen holds my gaze longer than I’m comfortable with before she responds.
“Of course, sir. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, just ask.
” She bites her bottom lip seductively—well, what she thinks looks sexy, though it doesn’t—then confidently walks down the aisle, leaving us alone.
I turn to my neighbor and offer a small smile. “Are you feeling any better?”
My seatmate replies with a slight, unsure nod, indicating a yes, followed by a headshake, which I take as her proper answer: she’s not in a good place.
I’ve never had a panic attack, but I’ve seen enough to know she’s on the verge of one. Her knee bobbing up and down frantically, as if it has a life of its own, is a key sign she’s hurtling into an abyss of dark fear, one where this aircraft goes down in flames, I guess.
“Does anything help with your nerves?” I genuinely want to help her regain her control.
“Nothing.”
There’s got to be something. “Not even music with noise-cancelling headphones?” I suggest.
“No,” she replies tersely. “It’s not the noise of the engines that gives me anxiety, it’s the motion.
” She goes on to explain shakily. “I hate the feeling of the pressure on my body during takeoff from the g-force.” She lifts her hand, squeezing her bottle of water over her heart, the plastic crackling under the pressure.
“Here, on my chest.” Her knee bounces triple time, and the fingers of her other hand join in, tapping frantically on top of her black stocking-covered knee.
“I’m fine once we are in the air. It’s the takeoff part I hate.
” Laying her hand out flat, she angles her hand and whooshes it through the air to demonstrate the fast motion of takeoff.
“God, I hate that.” She squeezes her eyes shut and reopens them again on a sharp exhale.
Her eyes dart around her surroundings, from one thing to the next, never lingering on any one thing or person for more than a couple of seconds. She’s a nervous wreck, like a cat on a hot tin roof.
“I’ve been for hypnotherapy, but that didn’t work.” She shares more. “The medication they gave me knocked me out, and I didn’t like how it made me feel. I won’t take it again,” she adds quietly, without me pressing her.
Curiously, it drives me to ask, “Why did you book a flight for a journey you could have easily driven?” There’s nothing logical about that decision when she has such a deep-seated fear.
“The company I interviewed with booked it. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Was the interview for a job?” I’m being nosey now because I have an irrational deep need to know.
She nods, grimacing slightly, then admits, “I shouldn’t have gone. It wasn’t what I wanted.”
Okay, this is good, she’s talking. If I can distract her for a bit, we might get in the air before she notices. It’s wishful thinking, but I’m running out of options, and from the sounds of it, it seems like she’s tried everything to help with no solution. “What would be your dream job?”
“I want to work in Silicon Valley for a pioneering software company. Someone big who will listen to my ideas.” There’s a sparkle in her eyes when she says that, and her voice grows less tense and lighter. “But those jobs get snapped up pretty quickly.”
“Put your seat belt on,” I coax her gently while she’s mentally preoccupied, then clip mine, securing myself while listening to her intently. “What do you do for a living?” I’m on a mission to sidetrack her and talk her down.
As a lawyer, I’m great at preparing nervous clients for questioning in court and under oath, and the best way I know how to do that is to build trust through patience and kindness, much like I am doing now.
“I’m a software designer,” she replies, her shoulders relaxing slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, as if her job makes her happy and fills her with joy. “I manage huge projects and I love it.”