Drinking had never been his thing. In the rare moments he indulged, it was with a glass of wine or something fruity and watered down. Maybe some rum in his eggnog during the holidays, if he felt especially saucy. The thought of sipping the stuff with nothing but ice gave him the shudders.
Of course, watching the man next to him idly tracing hisfingers along the rim of his glass certainly imbued him with a deep appreciation of the aesthetic.
“I am not nervous,” he half-lied. The flight wasn’t bothering him one iota. It was sitting next to someone who looked like they’d just stepped off the Tom Ford runway at Fashion Week that had him rattled.
By the time they’d reached altitude and the Fasten Seatbelts sign had turned off, Heath wished hewasa nervous traveler. At least then he’d have come prepared with some form of distraction technique to get him through the next several hours. Instead, he struggled to focus on the essays his students had turned in before break, which was nigh impossible with all the sucking and crunching of ice cubes happening beside him.
“Must you?” he snapped after reading the same paragraph for the tenth time and still not understanding a word.
“What?”
Heath closed his eyes and inhaled to a count of five before slowly releasing the breath.
“That,” he said, gesturing at the ice slowly drifting into the man’s mouth.
“Sorry,” he apologized around the cube, before cracking it with a chomp that made Heath cringe.
“Another Macallan, Mr. Westin?”
Heath watchedMr. Westinrun his tongue across his teeth while breaking into a smile at the lovely flight attendant, who immediately smiled back.
“You read my mind.”
The curvaceous brunette leaned forward to accept the empty glass, offering a healthy peek at the dark lace undergarment hiding beneath her uniform blouse. Westin’s smile broadened, shifting into the sort that could make a person forget their own name while their underwear melted clean off.
Heath restrained his mind from trawling through the nearestgutter. Was he truly incapable of maintaining control of his faculties just because the man was flirty and gorgeous?
Yes. The answer was yes, and admitting it was the first step to recovery.
“Just water for me,” he answered the question no one had asked him, and she looked his way with a blink of surprise.
He’d had years of playing third wheel with his friends and their spouses—or in the case of Andres’ entourage, a spare tire. In all that time, he’d never felt more like an old mattress tossed into the woods by the side of the road than he did now. It left a distinctive and unpleasant aftertaste.
The attendant’s smile remained fixed, if significantly less steamy, as she registered his request. “Of course, hon. I’ll be right back with both of those beverages.”
She’d called himhonin a tone reserved for cute elderly people. Heath tried not to bristle, but it took effort.
“Wise,” said his neighbor, whose attention remained locked on her retreating backside.
Heath hadn’t been speculating on Westin’s orientation (much), but the look in the man’s eyes answered the question plainly.
“What is?”
“Not drinking. Y’know, since you’re a nervous flyer.”
“I am not?—”
Heath stopped himself from going fully indignant when the corner of Mr. Westin’s mouth lifted into half a smile. Their eyes met, and warmth suffused Heath’s chest as his seatmate chuckled and shook his head.
“Damn, you’re easy.”
Stretching back his shoulders, Heath again dragged his mind away from a swirling pit of lurid comebacks. With a casual sniff, he woke his laptop and shot the very normal and entirely unremarkable Mr. Westin his best rendition of “haughty”—eyebrowraised, lips pursed. His neighbor chuckled in response, so Heath doubled down.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m fine. You can stifle any fantasies involving wrestling me to the ground.”
One day, he would learn when to stop talking.
“Your water.” The attendant placed the glass on Heath’s table before performing another exaggerated lean toward his seatmate, whose amused expression darkened to something unrepentantly hungry in reaction.
