“I’m so sorry.” She tips her coffee back, then tosses the cup into a bin nearby.
“I told you to be here two hours before takeoff.”
She huffs. “Yeah, that’s ridiculous.” Grumbling, she pulls her phone from her black leggings and plugs it into an outlet. “Who shows up two hours before a flight?”
I jab a thumb into my chest. “Me.”
With a roll of her eyes, she waves dismissively. “My phone died on the way over, and I must have forgotten to pack my charger. Had to stop to buy a new one, so that’s my bad.”
I release a long exhale and shake off my agitation. No sense in giving her grief over it. She’s here, and that’s all that matters.
“Would Mr. Ezra Miller please come to gate twenty-four. Mr. Ezra Miller to gate twenty-four.”
With a confused look, Millie unplugs her phone and lifts the handle of her suitcase. Then she trails behind me to the counter, where we’re greeted by an older woman.
“Mr. and Mrs. Miller? It looks like you’ve been upgraded to first class.” With a practiced smile, she hands Millie two tickets. “You will be boarding in a few minutes. Feel free to go ahead and get in line.”
“First class? What for?” I ask.
The woman’s face brightens. “Because it’s your honeymoon, of course. Let’s see that ring, sweetheart.”
Millie pulls her hand back from the counter like it’s burned her. “Oh, I uh?—”
In a flash, I dig into my pocket. “She left them on the counter this morning,” I announce, presenting a thin white-gold band and a matching ring with a circular diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds.
I don’t know which sparkles more, the rock or Millie’s eyes.
“Here, honey.” I slide the rings onto her finger.
Thank goodness Joey gave me her ring size.
I turn to the woman behind the desk. “I guess she’s not used to wearing them yet.” Forcing a chuckle, I silently pray the woman doesn’t see through our little facade and rescind the offer for the upgraded tickets.
Instead, she laughs along with me. “I remember those early days of marriage.”
Millie’s hand is frozen in midair, her attention fixed on her hand.
Interlacing my fingers with hers, I thank the woman. Then I lead my fake wife toward the front of the line.
It isn’t until we reach the third aisle that I release her. When I do, I flex my fingers, already missing the way her hand fits in mine.
Hmm,weird.
We ended up on the same flight home from Greece last year, where I learned that Millie prefers the aisle seat over the window, so I slide in first. As I’m settling in, the elderly man who boarded behind us struggles to lift his carry-on into the overhead bin, so Millie offers assistance. When she raises her arms, her shirt lifts, and I’m gifted with a sliver of her perfectly creamy abdomen.
She catches me staring and immediately tugs on her shirt, then slides into her seat.Okay. It’s becoming clear that my attention makes her uncomfortable; I’m not sure why—her new curves are incredible.
Turning to me, her lip caught between her teeth, she flashes her left hand between us. “These are fake, right?”
“Nope.” I flash her my matching band.
“What?” she gasps. “I can’t. No.” She twists the rings with shaky fingers. “Obviously I’ll give them back after all this.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, my attention catching on a cuff around her wrist. “What’s that?”
“Oh, a motion sickness band.” She sighs. “I didn’t use to get queasy on flights, but for some reason, I do now.” As she plugs herphone into the complimentary outlet, it buzzes. “Look,” she laughs, angling the screen in my direction.
JOEY
