A shiver snuck up my arm before I could catch it.
“Technically,” I managed. He stood to his feet and circled the table. My brain was still foggy when he dropped down in the seat next to me, his leg brushing mine.
“So, if I do this…” He leaned into me, wrapping his arm around the back of the chair. His hand settled on the small of my back, where my skin was exposed. My breath stuttered as his foot found mine under the table.
“Hasheem,” I warned.
“What?” He smirked, looking fine as hell as he smiled down at me all innocently with that same heartbreaker grin he’d been running on girls since high school. “I’m just trying to see what’s appropriate according to your guidelines.”
“Right now, though?” I muttered, looking around like someone was paying us attention in this crowded ass airport. He chuckled and let his hand fall back to the table as he removed his foot.
“Look, we got one layover to make this shit believable. If you’re going to be tense every time I put a hand on you, this fake boyfriend thing is not gon’ work.”
I stared at him and then down at our food. He was right. I was going to have to get comfortable with Hasheem touching me in this way.
“Don’t worry about the rules. They weren’t written for you,” I finally said.
His brows lifted. “Oh, word?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I only needed all that with some stranger. You’re not a stranger. Do what feels . . . natural . . . I guess. I trust you.”
Something flickered across his face, but it was gone before I could name it.
“Say less.”
Before I could decide if that made me nervous or excited, the intercom sounded to life over our heads.
“Passengers on Flight 103 to Zanzibar. This is your first boarding call. We will begin pre-boarding in ten minutes.”
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“Oh my God,” I breathed out. “That’s us.”
“Relax,” Hasheem said, already stacking our trash. He stood and offered me his hand without thinking about it. I hesitated a half-second, then slid my palm into his.
“Come on, fake bae,” he said, squeezing my fingers as he steered us toward the gate. “We got a flight to catch and a whole fake relationship to warm up for.”
First class wasn’tnew to me. I flew first class anytime I flew. I’d worked hard to get to where I was in life, and I liked to enjoy the benefits. First class on somebody else’s dime though? That was new. This wasn’t the regular bigger seats, free drinks shit either. This was a damn apartment in the sky. Each of us had our own little cubby with a big ass TV in the front that had our names on it. Shit, I was going to have to fly internationally more often. They even had a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket waiting for us.
All this should’ve calmed Harlowe’s ass down. Instead, it seemed like it cranked her anxiety up more.
“Alright,” she said, turning toward me, curls bouncing in her face. “We gotta send them at least one travel clip before we land. Like a quick ‘we’re on the way, look at us being cute’ type thing.”
“Say less,” I told her, leaning back. “I’m here to follow your lead. You the director.” That made the corner of her mouth turn up.
“Okay. Um . . . just sit there. I’ll do all the talking.” She set her little tripod up on the tray table, angled the camera in our direction, checked her hair on the screen, and then hit record.
“Hey, Duality fam,” she said in that cute little professional voice she used on her page. “It’s Harlowe and?—”
“Hasheem,” I jumped in, almost missing my cue. I gave the camera a polite little smile and sat back while she did her thing. I wasn’t a be on camera type of nigga. All that social media, look at me shit felt too performative for my taste. It was a woman’s lane as far as I was concerned, but I would play my part for Harlowe.
“We are headed to Zanzibar for The Duality Experience Couples’ Escape,” she went on. “We’re so excited to celebrate Black love, soft life, and… nope.” She stopped the video and frowned. “Yeah, no,” she said. “It’s too scripted.”
“Let me see.” I sat up. “Play it back.”
She lifted her phone so we could both watch and let the video play back. She was right, the shit looked weak. We were sitting too damn far apart, facing the camera like this was an orientation video or some shit.
“Yeah, that’s trash,” I said. “We look like we on a damn Zoom call.”
