Nash laughs. “Uh, we dole out relentless shit regardless of what you do for a woman. Remember when Grant wore a dress for Delphine?”
Grant seethes, “It was acaftanby some famous French designer.”
Jace laughs. “No, it was a circus tent, and your Dumbo was free-balling in it.”
They go back and forth with their bullshit while I can’t decide when, not if, I’ll do anything to get Alena back.
Our impromptu shopping day was the first time I’ve smiled in months. The next day? She asked if I wanted to walk Mutt with her. We’ve spent two weeks walking our dog, going on hikes, even pulling the same shifts at work.
It’s like we’re friends again. We talk and laugh. But we don’t kiss. We barely touch. We can’t say the one thing we’re dying to know.
Axel cups my shoulder. “Just be honest with her, man. It’s all a woman wants.”
Honest with her.
It’s all I feel for Alena, so damn honestly in love as we board the flight. Our tender smiles exchanged. Her little whisper of “thank you” when I rush to put her carry-on in the bin above her seat.
I settle into mine, and the first five hours of our non-stop flight to Athens are the longest of my life. Alena sits, two rows up with my mom, while my knee bounces so much, I’m causing turbulence.
“For fuck’s sake,” Jace mumbles behind his sleep mask. “If you don’t go up there and sing to her, I’ll break your face open on your tray table.”
Across the aisle, Wren pleads, “Please, do it. It’ll be so romantic.”
“Way to keep a secret, Sire.”
He silently winks at my growl, pulling Wren into his embrace. Actually, Sire’s being a little somber this trip. I’d ask him who licked the red off his candy, but Wren’s shooing me. “Go. Your mom just went to the restroom.”
I grab the ukulele I stuffed under my seat.
“Yay!” Wren claps. “I’ll record it.”
“Don’t record it,” I hiss, standing up.
But Wren’s phone’s up, ignoring me. Jace is too.
I start strumming my ukulele, fucking up the G-chord, but I’m too nervous to give a shit. The flight attendant shakes her head, smiling. Guess I’m not the first dumbass to do this. Clearing my throat, I turn, facing Alena’s chair, singing the first line from the movie, with a matching big smile.
But…
She’s not.
Her eyebrows are plastered to her hairline. “What are you doing?” she whispers.
“Being Robbie Hart.”
She blushes. “But everyone’s watching.”
“That’s the point.”
“But Loch, youcan’tsing.”
My face falls. “Neither can Adam Sandler, but tell that to his millions.”
She giggles, hiding her face behind her hand. “Okay. Do it. Just hurry and finish.”
“Not what any man wants to hear. Ever.”
That was Grant, chiming in from across the aisle.
