“It’s for weight distribution,” Evan explained, disappointed that his comment hadn’t been the one to achieve the coveted plum. Score one for Mr. Magoo. “They need to distribute passenger weight with the luggage to keep the plane balanced.”
“Oh, dear God.”
Lennox’s face went from indignant to deathly pale in a blink, and Evan took a quick step to the side. Whether he intended to puke or pass out, he’d be doing it on somebody else’s shoes.
“Thought you weren’t a nervous flyer.”
The thought of being trapped on a tiny island with Lennox, the nosy schoolmarm, had been bad, but he’d underestimated how much worse being trapped on a tiny plane with him could be. Right with him, in fact. As in crushed together in the two seats on the wing, because it turned out they were almost identical in height and weight.
Evan hated small planes for myriad reasons, but having a man in desperate need of a hobby practically sitting in his lap took the current number one spot. The only consolation was that his new nemesis looked equally unhappy about it.
“Are you fidgeting on purpose?”
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You’re shaking the plane.”
“That’s because this isn’t a plane. It’s a sardine can with wings.”
Lennox alternated between drumming his leg, shifting in his seat, and stretching his shoulders while Evan calculated the force necessary to drag him three feet and hurl him out the door.
“Just admit it. You hate flying.”
“I do not! I just?—”
A gasp severed his retort as the plane dipped. Evan’s stomach went with it, and a twinge of PTSD hit him right in the groin.
“Heading up a bit to avoid this pocket,” the pilot announced, and the engine roared in complaint.
Evan had a complaint of his own, and it involved the death grip Lennox now had on his thigh.
Maybe he’d been hasty in calling bullshit on the guy’s declaration of 5’11 and 170 pounds. Sure, he was a little taller, but not a full inch. 5’10 and a half at most. Maybe.
Regardless, he’d refused to believe he’d packed that much weight into those thrift store chinos and 1990s polo shirt, but the veins popping along Lennox’s hands and forearm told a surprising story.
“Damn, dude. You work out?”
“What?”
Evan gave the hand a pointed look. “Hell of a grip you got there.”
Lennox yanked his hand away, pressing it to his chest as though scalded. “Oh. Um. Sorry.”
“I’m still not wrestling you to the ground.”
Lennox’s mouth dropped open, and his face darkened close enough to purple that Evan gave himself half a victory point. He hadn’t been first, but he’d been fastest. Not typically something he’d brag about, but this time he’d own it.
They hit more turbulence, the little aircraft shuddering and shaking, and Evan cringed as the pressure drop made his head feel like it was being juiced. They were losing altitude, which he really hoped was on purpose, but with Lennox’s hand back on his thigh, he was too distracted to ask.
Did the guy think he was grabbing the seat arm? Could he not feel the quad muscle protesting beneath his merciless grip? Was this a thinly veiled insinuation that he skipped leg day?
Before Evan could decide how insulted he should be, the landing gear scraped the runway, and he discovered physics also had a shit sense of humor.
Evan braced for impact as the plane bounced several times while seeking purchase. He’d expected some whiplash. What he’d gotten was an uptight wrecking ball straight to the ribs.
When the brakes finally caught, they jerked side to side, reminding Evan of a dog with a stuffed toy. He grunted at the impact of Lennox jabbing him in the side, then buckled as another caught him near a kidney.
Okay, fine. The bastard was absolutely somewhere in theneighborhood of 170 pounds. He also had the sharpest elbows Evan had ever had the displeasure of meeting.
