“Right away.” She gives us a polite smile before returning to the galley. In what feels like no time at all, she’s bringing us glasses—real glasses, not flimsy plastic cups.
He lifts his glass. It takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me. I knock my glass against his in a toast.
“What brings you to LA?” he asks as he sips his drink.
“My dad has a work trip.” I tilt my head across the aisle. “I’m tagging along.”
In theory, we’re going on vacation in a few weeks to celebrate my graduation, but I’m sure he’ll probably work through it like he has every other trip we’ve ever been on. Maybe I’ll tell him to cancel the trip and go by myself. It might be more fun to explore Paris on my own without my dad chaperoning, glued to his phone.
Seb cranes his head forward, looking over my dad. He’s fully in work mode, so he doesn’t know he’s being watched.
“Nice. I work with my dad, too, so I get that.”
I’m curious what he does. He has a strong, athletic body, but that doesn’t mean he works out for a living. Maybe he’s in construction or runs a bookstore. There are other professions in the world that have nothing to do with hockey.
“How about you?”
“Work thing,” he says lightly. “My dad and my brothers already flew into town, but I had a few things to wrap up, so I’m coming in a few days later.”
“Family business, huh?”
He nods, opening his mouth to say something, when the intercom crackles to life. The crew welcomes us to the flight and goes over the mandatory instructions. Our flight attendant whisks away our glasses—mine is still mostly full—and we prepare for takeoff.
Seb shifts in his seat. His hand goes to the armrest, holding on for dear life.
“You don’t like flying?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just takeoff and landing. You’d think with how often I travel, I’d be used to it by now.”
“You travel for work or for fun?”
“Work. My job takes me all over.” For a moment, he almost has a smirk on his lips, but then the plane lurches into motion and his face goes pale again.
I’m not sure what possesses me, but I cover his hand with mine. And to my surprise, he flips his hand until our palms touch, lacing our fingers together.
“Thanks for this,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“It’s not a bother.”
Holding hands with a hot man on a trans-continental flight? Definitely not a hardship.
Once the plane is in the air and stabilized, I expect him to pull away, but he keeps hold of my hand. He opens his book with his other, so I pull out my Kindle again. Every so often, he runs his thumb over the back of my knuckles, almost like he can’t help himself.
His fingers are warm, calloused. I’m guessing from whatever he does to work out.
It’s maybe an hour later before I take my hand back. He looks over at me, his head tilted, until I stand and make my way to the galley bathroom. As soon as I get back, my hands freshly washed, he takes it again. I can’t hide my smile as I get settled.
When the flight attendant brings our meals, we separate again.
“Do you live in Boston?” Seb asks.
“My dad does. I go to school in Syracuse. Well, I just graduated. So I guess I live in Boston again.” I take a breath. Good lord, why can’t I stop talking? “You?”
“I’m based in Minneapolis. I was in Boston for a buddy’s wedding.”
“Lots of traveling for you, then.”
He grimaces. “Yeah. I miss school. It was so much easier.” He purses his lips. “Well, not easier, per se. But less pressure.”
