“We sing birthday songs or participate in people’s proposals,” she continues, pulling me out of the way by the cotton of my white T-shirt. “Nothing as exciting as that going on today, so I thought I’d help someone out. I’ve always had a soft spotfor nerds.” She crooks her palm over her mouth, voice pitching lower. “And it helps that he’s cute.” Glancing at the seat numbers, she stops. “Here we are. I told you I’d find someone who can help you,” she chirps, turning to the people sitting in row 44.
I size up the three people in the row. In the aisle seat is a guy about my age with the most enviable shade of strawberry blond hair and a blush tainting his cheeks. Next to him, there’s a nondescript white middle-aged man with a sports cap that screams sitcom dad. A teenage girl with pointy cat ears attached to the band of her headphones has the window seat, an open bag of saltines in her hands. The flight attendant’s comment implied it was a guy, which rules out the teenager, plus she said he was cute. Unless her criteria for cuteness include a dad bod, it’s down to Blond Guy.
“You really didn’t have to,” Blond Guy says.
Bingo.
I’m not a native English speaker, but based on the accent, he’s American, maybe even from New York. He bites his bottom lip, but there’s a flash in his blue eyes. He looks bashful. Definitely cute.
“Well, it’s your lucky day,” the flight attendant responds, her words a different kind of slow now. With the way she leans toward him, I wonder if he flirted her into this absurd search for a nonmedical doctor.
“And mine,” Sitcom Dad adds. The flight attendant steps to the side, letting Blond Guy and Sitcom Dad stand and file out of their row, before she guides Sitcom Dad to a free aisle seat a few rows down, leaving me face-to-face with Blond Guy and his receding blush.
“One thousand words, huh?” I mock.
“It was a joke.” He shrugs, almost apologetically.
I glance back at the empty middle seat I vacated. “So you’re not over the word limit by five hundred?”
“I am,” he hurries to say. “That part’s true. But she asked if there was anything she could help me with and I said I had this abstract deadline, and I didn’t think she’d take it so literally and—”
“Look, do you want to get in?” A passenger behind me grumbles and we jump back into action. Blond Guy steps aside so I can slide into the middle seat.
Before I manage to settle in, though, there’s a bump underfoot and my pulse skyrockets. I reach out to steady myself. For a moment there, I’d forgotten that planes are lethal.
“Are you okay?” Blond Guy wants to know.
I wait for another bump before responding, and when it doesn’t come, I straighten. I rarely get manicures, but for my sister’s wedding I carved out time, and now my nails are an unfamiliar berry-red against the backdrop of Blond Guy’s soft flannel.
Whoops. It seems like the solid ridge my hand reached for wasn’t part of the airplane fixtures after all.
“Sorry,” I stammer, dropping my hand from his biceps. A corner of his mouth flicks into the blink of a smile.
I push my leather tote under the seat in front of me, and by the time I’m sitting upright again, he’s already back in his seat, his arm brushing mine. The sleeve of his flannel is pushed up, exposing a tanned forearm with golden hairs that dust up toward his elbow.
He clears his throat. “So.”
I blink up to his face, to the set of blue eyes and the scatter of freckles plotted over the bridge of his nose. His hair is parted at the side, and the soft waves fall to the tips of his ears. Something about him makes it impossible to look away. Is it the knowledge that he’s an academic who happens to look hot? Is it that I’m finally away from my desk long enough to appreciate it? Or is exposure to fearful situations correlated to a heightened attraction to people?
Someone should run a study on this.
“The abstract,” he says.
“Right. Let’s see what I can help you with. I’m Frances, by the way.”
He holds out his hand in the cramped space between us. “Lewis. Nice to meet you.” His fingers close around my hand briefly, then let go—and that’s when gravity decides to make another entrance. It pulls us down like we’re on the world’s steepest roller-coaster ride, only we’re not, we’re in a freaking plane, and there’s nothing below us except the green fields of Ireland or the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and we’re plunging toward them and—
“Hey.”
When I open my eyes, the lights of the cabin are too bright. People are chatting, someone is giggling, and it grates against my ear. Blond Guy—Lewis—shifts and blocks out my view of the cabin with his shoulder. I look down to find his hand in my lap, sandwiched between mine.
“Breathe with me,” he says and maneuvers our hand sandwich to his chest. My breaths are a dizzying harmonic of his, short and quick, and I force myself to focus on how his lungs expand and contract against the sides of my fingers.
“Frances? Are you—”
“I’m a little afraid of flying,” I choke out between clenched teeth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking,” a tinny voice comes over the speakers. “You’ve seen the seat belt sign come on. We’re encountering some turbulence as we enter the airspace above the ocean, so the ride may be a bit bumpy for the next fifteen to twenty minutes. Crew, please return to your jump seats.”
