Chapter 6
Six
Lexi
I’ll be honest. When Mark conks out super fast, I’m tempted to scope out his photo album labeled ITALY. It’s right there, two feet away, still lit and unlocked. What harm could a quality inspection do? Like blueberries. It’s negligent to not check the container for bruised ones before you buy them.
Okay, honestly-honestly? No. I can’t.
I’m not that snoopy, privacy-invading jerk we all hate. But if my hand brushes against it on accident while I’m trying to bend over and adjust my blanket, and the photo app opens, I might happen to glance in that direction and enjoy the view.
His legs are so long, they press into the seat in front of him. I bend over, reaching for the end of my blanket. He shifts with a soft sigh, and his knee pins my hair against the seat pocket.
I tug myself free—leaving a few strands behind—and whip my gaze to his face, suspicious, but his eyes are closed, his mouth relaxed in a soft smile. Dreaming of eradicating tourists, probably.
I return to my work but can’t absorb anything. With a sigh, I shut my laptop and slide it back into my bag under the seat, too twitchy to concentrate.
And cold. Domestic flights are never this cold. I pull the blue airline blanket up tighter around my shoulders and tuck it around my sandaled feet. Dressing for the summer season is not the same as dressing for an overseas flight. I know that now.
I dive into Austen’s regency world for a bit until Mark’s rhythmic breathing lulls me to sleep.
Hours later, as the passengers stir and the window shades come up, I wake with my cheek pressed against a firm shoulder, my right side warm and comfortable.
I snuggle deeper into the cozy feeling of sleepy surrender—
Whoa.
I jerk upright and glance at Mark. He’s still asleep. I suck in a deep breath. He doesn’t need to know that happened. Ever. Plus, it’s horribly cliché.
While he’s unconscious, I practice Mom’s artist lessons, viewing his rugged features through a lens of contour and coloring. A mere academic exercise, in case I need to ever describe him to a sketch artist for a wanted poster.
Except for the riot of curls falling over his dark eyebrows, he’s impossibly crisp, his face soft with sleep. The combination is mesmerizing.
Whereas my shirt is wrinkled and my hair layers must look like they had a party without me. I fluff the flat bits but it’s a lost cause. And I’m not trying to impress anyone.
The flight attendants soon pass out a mystery-spread-on-bread breakfast sandwich (using loose terms here) and offer coffee (even looser terms) and tea (now we’re just putting plants into hot water).
My eyes are gritty and the wicked turbulence kills my appetite, but the layover in Germany will be short.
I’ll be at my Rome hotel by early afternoon for a hard reset with plenty of time before tomorrow’s event.
The approach into Frankfurt is unpleasant, through thick, dark clouds, then into hard rain and wind so strong we definitely don’t land the way those pilots were taught in flight school.
I shake out the static-loving blanket, looking for my beloved paperback, but it’s not on the seat or the floor. I find it a minute later in the mesh pocket on the seat-back, except I don’t remember putting it there before falling asleep. I slide it into my bag and a stubby pencil falls out.
Mark pulls my carry-on down from the bin. I thank him, keeping my tone distant like we were complete strangers (which we are, Lexi!), and he gives a small hum-grunt. In the terminal, we part ways without a word, but my toes curl from the heat in his last glance at me over his shoulder.
At customs I choose a different line than the one Mark joins.
I can’t help a tiny, triumphant smirk when I pass him because my line proves quicker.
I let the moving sidewalk and crowds sweep me along to the other side of the airport.
Rain drums on the roof, muted in the underground corridors, but back upstairs it lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows with angry streaks.
I stand behind a crowd gathered at the large flight info screens, waiting for a chance to step close enough to confirm my gate.
“Maybe you won at customs, but I won the sustenance round.”
I tip my head back and get an eyeful of Day Two Stubble TM on Mark’s chin. Somewhere between customs and terminal one, he’s snagged three bags of Lays and a Fanta.
A little girl’s squeal nearby distracts us.
The young family who was at the gate in Boston waddles down the hall, eclipsed by their travel gear.
The father is dragging the older daughter’s empty stroller with an abandoned sippy cup in the seat, following her toward the windows.
The younger girl is conked out under her blanket, once-tidy pigtails now haywire, in the second stroller the mom pushes.
As they pass by us, I lean around the solid wall of Mark. “They did amazingly on the flight. They’re very well-behaved.”
The mother seems to melt. “Thank you so much for saying that,” she gushes. “We’ll see if it continues. We have another leg to Rome in an hour.”
She waves and moves toward the food court.
A low murmur tickles my ear. “Boarding starts in a half hour. Ten bucks they don’t make our flight.”
I give an outraged-on-their-behalf gasp and twist, facing Mark. “We’re not betting against them. They’re a nice family.” My voice hitches on the word that always makes me feel lonely.
Despite my strong stance, I bite my lip. Their slow progress grinds to a halt while the dad tries to convince the eldest to leave the view of airplanes on the tarmac.
“I agree. I hope they make the flight.”
My face screws up. Unattractive, I’m sure, but he’s not making sense and I’m so tired I don’t care. “Then why would you bet that?”
“Wanting them to make it has nothing to do with whether I think they will. I’m rooting for them, but it’s looking grim.”
Valid point. The dad has reined in the active kid but is now dashing back to the window to pick up a stuffed hippo.
Mark holds out his large hand. “Aren’t you competitive and over-optimistic?”
“You know what? Fine.” I reach out, but he yanks his hand back.
“Wait. Let’s make this epic.” He lifts an eyebrow, intense and reckless. “Loser cooks the winner a full three-course meal in Italy.”
I don’t know the first thing about cooking. My mom was a microwaver and toast master and I’ve followed in her footsteps.
More to the point, I’ve got Italy all planned out, down to the hour.
I open my mouth, on the verge of renegotiating, when he says, “Are you all in?”
I’m all in about my mom and Italy. That’s it. I can’t risk my trip with this senseless game. He’s getting me off track.
He sees my hesitation, and his smile wavers. “Lexington?”
The word almost breaks me. The way he says it feels like he sees past my public image, my filters, my confidence, and plans. But there’s no way he gets me the way my mom did. He’s just using her passcode.
This interaction has to stop. I fold my arms and turn to the flight screens, ignoring his chuckle.
“Interesting reveal. You play things safe.”
Groans from the jostling crowd stop me from a hot retort. I peer over the shoulders in front of me and locate our Rome flight listed on the screen.
Canceled.
“Weather.” Mark’s voice is so low it comes out as a growl.
“So, what do we do now?”
We, Lexi? Has a little tiredness erased your memory? We’re rivals. He’s the one who thinks my trip to Italy is doomed.
His gaze drops from the screens to me. He doesn’t smile, but mischief covers every inch of his face. “Spots on the next flight are first come, first served. We race to the airline desk.”
Then he takes off jogging down the hall, chip bags flapping.
To his credit, he’s not running full speed, expecting me to hustle after him.
Still, no way could I keep up with his long-legged strides, especially with my carry-on, low energy, and these shoes.
Which are not nearly as cute as when I left my apartment yesterday.
We aren’t even on speaking terms anymore.
As soon as Mark is out of sight, I open the airline app. In ten minutes, I’m rebooked on the next flight to Rome without breaking a sweat. Ha, take that, Dasher. Brains over brawn. (Not that I’m paying attention to the brawn.)
Except now I’m sweating at the lost time buffer. The next flight is tomorrow and I’ll arrive only a few hours before the reception I’m in charge of.
An hour of standing in line at the airline desk later, voucher in hand, I head for the hotel shuttle, gripping my carry-on handle a little too tightly.
Mark was right, I do play it safe. I’m not good with situations out of my control.
I had enough of that to last me a lifetime when Mom’s cancer returned.
This is how I have to live my life. No randomness.
No unplanned experiences, and no unscheduled relationships, even if it’s engaging with the enemy.
This delay, Mark, and even the weather can’t derail me. I’ll get on the plane tomorrow, open my mom’s letters, and forget Mark except for the ten minutes he’s penciled into my calendar a week from now at Trevi Fountain.