His brows drew together. “Upset? How?”
“Reddened eyes. I suspect she’s been crying. She came up front to use the lavatory to not disturb her friend in the bedroom, so I made her some chamomile tea and offered cookies, but …” She hesitated. “I don’t think it’s going to be enough.”
Unbuckling, he turned to his co-pilot — Melinda’s husband — and murmured, “Take over for a bit.” Then he pushed out of the confined space, stretching his shoulders as he stood.
Melinda slid neatly into his seat.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said, already in the doorway. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, wake Austin.”
She nodded once. “Got it.”
At the galley, he paused, grabbed a bottle of scotch from the bar, and poured a finger into a tumbler. Glass in his hand, he made his way down the aisle. He stopped outside the curtained-off section and rapped lightly on the bulkhead.
“Suzette?”
A beat of silence. Then her voice, soft and uneven. “I’m okay.”
She wasn’t. Not with the small hitch in her breath, the brittle edge of recent tears.
“I’m coming in,” he said quietly, drawing the curtain aside. He stepped through and let it fall closed behind him.
She sat on the converted sofa, knees drawn up, facing the entrance. The soft overhead light caught the sheen of tears on her cheeks, and the sight hit him square in the chest.
“Sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. He didn’t like seeing the ravages of tears on her face.
She swiped at her cheeks, chin lifting. “It’s just allergies,” she muttered.
He placed the glass beside the untouched tea and jumble of jewelry, and sat on the other end of the sofa close to her feet. Pink-tipped toes peeked out from beneath the hem of the brushed cotton pants she wore to sleep in.
She eyed him, defensive. “Who’s flying the plane?”
“Melinda’s husband,” he said, voice calm. “Co-pilot.”
Her brows lifted. “She’s married?”
“Mm.” His mouth curved faintly. “Very happily.”
That earned him a flicker of something — relief, maybe — before she looked away.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and turned his head to look at her. “Now,” he said quietly, “you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?”
She made a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “You’d be guessing for a while.”
“I’ve got time,” he said, easy and unhurried.
She folded her arms, eyes fixed on the tea she hadn’t touched. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. It’s stupid.”
“Emotions aren’t stupid.”
Her head snapped up at that. “You don’t even know what it’s about.”
“I don’t have to,” he said simply. “Whatever it is … it’s yours, and it matters.”
She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. “You’re very persistent, you know that?”
“Occupational hazard.”
That earned him a tiny laugh. Progress. She tightened her arms around her knees and picked at a thread from the hem.
