To touch her.
She eased into her seat next to me, but as she did, her shoulder bag caught on the arm of the chair, spilling its contents onto the floor between our seats.
“Damn. I’m a mess today.” She laughed.
I rubbed my palm against my chest to work through the tightness that suddenly formed there. I bent over to pick up the tablet that fell out of her shoulder bag. Flipping the device over to see the screen it lit up. She was listening to an audiobook.
“Outliers,” I murmured.
Her lips parted, and eyebrows lifted. “Have you read it?” she asked as I handed her the tablet.
With a nod, I answered, “A few months ago. Didn’t enjoy it as much asTalking to Strangers.”
“I think I preferTalking to StrangersoverOutliers, to be quite honest,” she said simultaneously.
Our eyes connected. There was a shimmer in hers.
“You’re a Malcolm Gladwell fan?” I asked.
“I don’t trust people who aren’t,” she replied.
Damn.
Another round of laughter spilled from her lips, and I wanted to rack my brain in search of something else that would make her laugh but came up empty. I went with the next best thing.
“What’s your favorite part ofOutliersso far?” I could hardly believe that I asked a question as a conversation opener. I didn’t do that type of shit. I liked quiet. And this woman, she didn’t strike me as quiet.
She wasn’t loud or obnoxious with her talking, but she clearly didn’t have a problem holding up the other end of a conversation.
“I mean, anything Gladwell writes is fascinating,” she started. “Right? The man has a gift.”
I nodded in agreement.
“But I think the part about how culture impacts communication and the real implications that has on the world around us.” She leaned in. “Take, for example, the way he discusses the number of plane crashes that could’ve been avoided but not for lack of competence when it comes to communication across languages and cultures.”
I gave her a contemplative look and said, “Now’s probably not the best time to mention plane crashes. Especially when this one is heading into international territory.”
Instead of that comment garnering a laugh, she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Instant regret settled in my gut since I hated not being able to see her mouth. The urge to capture her wrist and pull it away from her mouth nearly overwhelmed me.
Hell, I was half a breath away from doing that when a male flight attendant appeared next to me. “Seatbelt, sir.”
His tone was polite enough, even friendly, but I still scowled him down. My anger baffled me for a second before I realized it was because he had the nerve to interrupt me while I was speaking to …
Shit, I didn’t even know her name yet.
Right as that thought crossed my mind, she started talking again.
“I didn’t frighten you, did I? Do you have a fear of flying?” The cute way her forehead wrinkled told me that she was genuinely concerned that she’d stirred up a fear of flying by mentioning Malcolm Gladwell’s example.
“I’ve been on thousands of flights. If I ever had a fear of flying it would be long gone by now.” All of which was true. Between my time in the Army, serving abroad, and working for the family I worked for, getting on an airplane was as second nature as getting into a car.
“Good.” She visibly exhaled.
“I took a flight once with a coworker who was terrified of flying. He held onto my hand for dear life the entire two-hour ride.”
My gut twisted.He?
Who the hell was this man holding onto her hand, and more importantly, why did it piss me off so much?
