An American. Lovely. They can be so bloody chatty. Oscar always said I was as chatty as a Yank, but I’m not even close.
“No. I prefer rail, but if it helps, then you should know I’ve never been on a plane that’s crashed.”
His gray-blue eyes bulge with fright.
The plane dips. My neighbor clutches the armrest again. “We’re gonna die.”
I bite back my grin. “Just a bump in the road—a wave on the surface of the sky. If you want something to really blow your mind, I can tell you about a recent article I read about North Korea launching an EMT weapon over the U.S. If it were to detonate, then all electronics would be knocked out—including those on planes.”
Death-grip bloke gasps.
“I know. I was gobsmacked too.” On a sigh, I shrug. “But hey… it sure would be one helluva ride.” Okay, I may be chattier than the average Brit.
“You have a mordant sense of humor.” White teeth peek from his parted lips, still taut in a grimace. Color seeps back into his fingers and face.
“You have a prodigious vocabulary.” I offer my hand. “I’m Scarlet Stone.”
His eyes flit between mine and my hand a few times before he releases the armrest. “Nolan Moore.” He squeezes my hand like I’m holding his dangling body off the side of a bridge.
I squeeze his in return just as tight. Oscar said a handshake says a lot—do it with confidence or not at all.
“American?” I choose not to be outwardly presumptuous.
He nods.
I rest my head back and close my eyes, giving myself a nice pat on the back for being friendly.
“W-wedding.”
Aannd… here we go. More small talk. “Sorry?”
Nolan’s hands fist on his legs as we bounce through the clouds. “Wedding. I was here for a wedding. A friend of mine from college got married in Farnham.”
“Oh. Wonderful. Very well then.” I resume my napping position.
“I’m from Savannah, Georgia.” Nolan’s shaky hands accept the small bottle of Jack, a Coke, and a glass of ice from the air hostess. He smiles, nerves still shaking his lips a bit.
Perhaps he’s only this chatty when he’s nervous.
“Really? That’s where I’m going. I was born in Savannah.”
On a sideways glance, he narrows one eye. “You clearly sound like you’re from Savannah, Georgia.”
“Cheeky.” I wink at him.
“Yes,cheeky, because we say that a lot in Savannah.” He sips his drink. “Are your parents originally from London or Savannah?”
I surrender. Nolan is friendly or needy, or a mix of both.
“My dad is originally from London and my mum came to London from the Caribbean.” I point to my hair, tight curls celebrating a holiday from hours of being straightened into submission. “Thank you, Mum, for the hair.” I grin.
“Against doctors’ orders, she traveled with my dad to Atlanta for his business trip when she was thirty-five weeks pregnant with me. They drove down to Savannah on the last day of the trip to have some beach time, and my mum went into labor. Theten-day trip turned into a month before they took me home to London. I haven’t been back to Savannah since.”
A flirty smile teases his lips, shedding the tension from his rigid posture. “How many years has it been since you were last in Savannah?”
My eyelashes sweep up, and I blink at him a few times before chuckling. “That’s a very smooth approach to asking my age.”
He shrugs, taking another sip of his drink.
