“You cannot tell me pink blobfish aren’t ugly.”
“I probably could if I knew what they looked like.” Because what the hell is a pink blobfish?
He rummages through his bag underneath the seat in front of him, pulling out an educational picture book that is clearly designed for elementary-aged kids.
“Are you a teacher?”
He chuckles as he fans the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. He holds the book out to me. A pink blobfish looks exactly how it sounds: a pink, iridescent blob, but with beady eyes and a Jabba the Hutt mouth.
I raise my eyebrows and look at him.
“Ugly, right?” he asks with a triumphant smile.
“It looks like a placenta,” I deadpan, jaw slacked.
He laughs and it’s not the polite laugh of a stranger. It’s a genuine belly laugh that fills the cabin of the plane.
“Oh my God, I have to tell my nieces and nephews you said that,” he says, wiping his eyes. “But you aren’t wrong.”
I smile, then immediately drop it as I realize I want to ask him about his nieces and nephews, why he’s flying to Seattle, what he does for a living, and, most importantly, what he’s doing tonight. I swallow hard, embarrassed.
“Despite its uncanny resemblance to a human organ, it’s still...”
“Don’t say it...” He shakes his head with that sexy half-smile.
“Cute,” I finish.
He groans, slamming the book shut.
“Sorry. I warned you. Toxic positivity runs through my veins.” I smile, smug, letting my eyes drift out the window.
“Can I get either of you something else to drink?” the flight attendant asks, crouched down next to him. I wonder if she thinks he smells as good as I think he does.
“Champagne, please,” I answer.
“Make that two.”
“Here you are, Ms. Waters.” The flight attendant hands me the flute, then another to the man sitting next to me. “And you, sir.”
We say thank you simultaneously as the flight attendant moves on to the next row.
“Cheers,” I say, holding up my glass and meeting his eyes.
“Cheers.” He clinks my glass, and we each take a sip, his gaze never wavering from mine. “She called you by name,” he says, then leans in closer, “Ms. Waters.”
I laugh.
“What’s your first name?”
“Julia,” I answer. “Yours?”
“JP.”
“Nice to meet you, JP.”
“You too, Julia.” His fingertips travel up the stem of the glass and I try not to stare. I try not to think his hands look too large to be holding something so small and delicate. The perfect oxymoron that is always far more attractive when it’s tangibly in front of me than when it’s written on paper.
I take another sip of champagne, letting the bubbles sting my throat and travel to my head with my million thoughts.
