The little frown wrinkle between his brows returns. “In what world would anyone prefer coach over first class?”
“You got me there. But it costs money—”
“I’m paying for it—”
“And some people—me in this particular instance—don’t want to feel beholden, especially over something they can’t afford.”
“Okay, I get that. And I know this will sound a bit—” he waves his hand “—whatever. But I have money. A lot. For me, inthis particular instance, it’s the equivalent of buying you coffee. It ain’t fair, but it’s the truth.”
He hands me my boarding pass.
I blow out a breath. “Okay. But I’m buying you a drink on the plane.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the reciprocation.” His fingers lightly touch my elbow to move me along. “But the drinks are free in first class.”
“I knew that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll buy you a coffee when we land.”
“I look forward to it.”
August
The first-class seats on the flight from Boston to Los Angeles aren’t enormous private pods, but they are extra wide and lie flat if you prefer. More importantly, they are still arranged in two by two formation, so I can talk to Pen in relative privacy and comfort.
As someone who was six foot four by age eighteen, I’ve been shelling out the cash for upgrades since my first endorsement check came in. I thank my paycheck every time I fly. The fact that anyone, regardless of size, has to cram into the medieval torture chamber known as coach is a social injustice that needs to be remedied. How we as a society continue to stand for it is a mystery to me.
I digress.
Last night, we’d left things at a somewhat awkward place. She’d offered me comfort: something I wanted more than I’d been prepared to acknowledge, and I’d hedged, withdrawn. It disappointed her. I’d disappointed myself as well. But it made certain things clear. First, I am through avoiding some truths in my life. Second, I have found a solution for my problem. It’sa huge risk that will most likely blow up in my face. I can live with that; my life revolves around calculated risk. This current risk all comes down to Penelope Morrow.
It’s adorable watching Pen quietly inspect her area. She opens and shuts her seat cubby. Then opens it again to pull out the bottle of water provided, puts the water back, takes out the headset, looks it over, puts it away. Next up is messing with the seat controls. But only a little. Just enough to see how they work.
She catches me watching and discreetly tucks the quilted blanket back into the footbed in front of her. “I hate how much I like this.”
“Fucking sucks, doesn’t it?”
Shining brown eyes flash in indignation. “Right? Everyone should have this.”
“They should.”
“I should thank you, but I’m not sure I will. Because now I truly know what I’m missing.”
I’d put her in first class for the rest of her life if she’d let me, just for the simple pleasure of knowing she’d glow with this quiet happiness once there. But I know she wouldn’t allow it. Which is a downer.
She inhales sharply as though bracing herself. “I’ll just enjoy the moment.”
I certainly am.
We don’t get a chance to talk before takeoff. Honestly, now that I have her here, I find myself hedging again. Why the hell did I pick a plane trip to ask her? I know why. My devious lizard brain figured it would be best to ask where she couldn’t walk out on me. I never really considered the fact that I wouldn’t be able to escape either. And she’s going to say no. Of course she’ll decline. Despite her claims to the contrary, Penelope doesn’t like me very much. Given that I’ve just maneuvered her here to spring an awkward as hell proposal on her, I wouldn’t blame her.
I adjust in my seat, accept the glass of champagne the flightattendant hands out... do anything but make eye contact with Pen. She’s already put her feet up and turned on her e-reader. All right, then. I pull out my phone and scroll through sports news.
The first article is about the chicken dance.
Fuck.
