He was kind—I could tell—and his smile was gentle and calm, his eyes like warm coffee with just the right amount of cream swirling through it. I turned a little in my seat to face him and my knee brushed his thigh. I let my gaze travel his Beastie Boys T-shirt until I settled on his computer.
Playing on it was a rom-com, one I’d never seen before, but Katie What’s-her-name—all stunning, shiny hair, celebrity mom, perfect life—was front and center. Her arms were full of shopping bags and she was wearing a big grin on her perfect face as she walked down a city street.
“You don’t strike me as the romantic comedy type.” I felt my eyebrow lift. I wasn’t sure if I was teasing him or myself as the question floated from my mouth.
He laughed. It was soothing and comforting like a coffee-and-Kahlua on a cold night, and warm like the sun on the first few days of summer.
I allowed my eyes to close and imagined he looked like somebody else—not someone else totally, but just different. Fit, not slender but muscular. He still had the same gracious smile and inviting eyes, but he wasn’t wearing a music T-shirt in my imagination. Maybe a Henley? And dark-wash jeans instead of the regular everyday ragged blue I’d noticed him wearing.
“It’s work too,” he said, interrupting my fantasy.
“Oh.” I chugged the balance of my mimosa, cooling the wash of desire recently conjured up from my brain.
“Actually, I’m pretty sureBubblePOPwill end up reviewing this one, will probably have someone at the premiere too. That’s why I asked about the site. Six degrees of Kevin Bacon and all that. Our worlds are connected.”
“I don’t do movies. I’m the fitness editor, but if Katie What’s-her-name is in it, I’m sure we’ll be all over it.”
He shifted his gaze over fully to me now. His eyes weren’t exclusively deep brown; tiny flecks of amber circled his pupil. They were captivating in a weird way, as if they didn’t belong with this guy.
I’d never met a slob who was so interesting before, yet he was definitely intriguing. And not really a slob—that was my own bias. Clearly, I was having some sort of psychotic breakdown on this airplane.
“Editor? Pretty impressive.”
“Um, I’m not sure how to respond. Do Inotlook like I could be an editor?”
My claws were out. It was a bad habit of mine after years of defending my lofty goals and aptitude, a defense mechanism I should have dropped long ago. You’d think that with my lofty goals, I would be happier by now.
He ran a hand through his black hair. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just you look young enough to be a college student.”
He had masculine hands, clean nails, and his hair was sort of that messy look, mussed without trying. It suited him and his wholeI don’t care about my appearanceattitude. I could use a little more of that ’tude.
I shrugged. “I graduated early and took a job with another virtual rag where I did an internship.Bubblecame for me shortly after that. I jumped at it, basically. I’d been working nonstop, round-the-clock, at the internship, and I finally felt like I was getting ahead. Now I like it; just not sure I will love it forever.”
He nodded, his eyes squinting a little as he took me in, surveying not just my body—he was doing that too—but it felt more like he was trying to really see me. Getme. All of me.
It was an odd thing to experience after living in New York for eight years where no one trulygotanyone. Life was spent treading on the surface—cramps constantly making my proverbial legs ache, trying to remain afloat—where I desperately struggled to remain at the very top, not willing to be the one to dive in. That’s where the bottom-feeders were.
“So, yeah,” I said. “I’m an editor.”
Here I was explaining myself to a stranger, talking more about my inner self than I did to my closest friends, and I didn’t even know his name. Janie would flip if she saw what I was up to, especially with this freak.
That hateful thought reminded me of my earlier text, and shame coated every cell in my body. This guy was nothing but a gentleman, and handsome if I studied him long enough. Not a freak or the Biggest Loser.
I tried to look away, busy my mind with something else, but his deep voice interrupted my thoughts. It was a tad scratchy, and I had to admit, that was sexy. I wanted to close my eyes and listen to him ask me questions.
And give him my answers, unfiltered and real—since he meant nothing to me.
“Sweet. Still, an editor. You should be proud. Wow ... I’ve been doing my own gig for close to a decade. Before that I was nothing more than a glorified coffee-runner ... that’s code for intern out west. For a long time, actually, I did that. But I paid my dues and now I work for myself, doing my own thing. Know what I mean?”
“I’m sorry to say, but not really. Even with thisgig.” I used air quotes, which was not like me. I was unsettled, a bit off-kilter around this guy. “I’m still putting my time in and all that. But it’s kind of cool to know there’s an end of the rainbow somewhere. At least, to meet one person who’s done it. I’ve been on the grind for so long, pushing to do everything faster and better than the next person. Was it worth it?”
I smoothed my hand over Lucy, the universal signal that I had work to do, but I didn’t know if I really wanted him to leave me alone.
More emotional waves crashed around me. This guy wasn’t all that bad—his voice and eyes and hands and compliments were something new to me. He was compelling me to speak the truth, to utter out loud the things that kept me awake at night. A small part of me wanted to get lost in him and whatever he was all about.
When a bout of turbulence rocked the cabin, knocking me into the dude, I was certain it was God’s way of punishing me for my bitchiness.
“You okay?” He beat me to the punch before I had a chance to apologize for elbowing him in the ribs.
