“Typical,” she sneers. “It’s always the husbands who leave all the parenting duties to their wives while they do nothing.”
“He’s not my kid,” I say, and her eyes harden into steel.
“You are a terrible stepfather, and you should be ashamed of yourself,” she snaps. “A real man would look past DNA?—”
“Iknow.” I stare incredulously at her because what the fuck is going on? “Listen?—”
Whatever short speech I had prepared about knowing what a great stepfather is like goes flying out the window when the kid next to me swings his foot into my tray table and sends my laptop sailing into the side of the plane.
5
BARBIE
TUESDAY, JULY 15TH
The hour-long flightout to Vegas has been a slow-crawling slog so far. One I want to go by as quickly as possible, because turbulence freaks me out. That and the guy seated next to me will not stop talking about howthey are watching me through my laptop.
I’m not sure whotheyare, and I don’t even want to know. I simply want to respond to my emails in peace. Especially after I’ve finally received a response months after submitting my application, and there are many forms sent to my inbox earlier today I need to fill out if I’m serious about the position.
The guy doesn’t seem to get the memo, since he keeps spouting more lines aboutthem trying to steal my face.
At least he doesn’t expect me to engage in a conversation with him. I’ll gladly be a sounding board for him and all of his conspiracy theories, as long as I don’t have to say anything.
By the time the plane lands in Vegas, my work laptop is stashed in my backpack and I’m figuring out how to grab my carry-on suitcase when I, in all of my five-foot-three glory, cannot reach the overhead compartment.
“Don’t let them steal your identity, Barbie.”
A flicker of terror threads through my veins as I glance sideways at him, and my lips form something that’s not really a smile given how nervous and panicky I’m feeling. Even more so when he grabs my pink suitcase from above and doesn’t hand it over to me, still holding onto it with a firm grip.
“Get out of the way,” someone snaps from down the aisle, and I take the opportunity to yank my suitcase out of his hand.
“Know that they’re always watching you,” he says, and my nervous little smile is all I can offer him while I wait for him to leave so I can exit the plane. Way after he’s gone, of course.
He probably saw my name while I was filling out some legal docs, I tell myself. It doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, I’m beyond terrified at the idea I’ll run into him again when I leave the plane and find him waiting for me.
Luckily, he’s nowhere in sight. Still, I’m twice as cautious and alert while I rush toward my next flight because the company, cheap as they are, booked my eight-hour connecting flight with the shortest layover period. I donotwant to sit next to him for one-third of an entire day while he finally clues me in on whotheyare.
I don’t see him anywhere while I board the plane, and once my pulse slows down just a smidge, I keep an eye out for my seat. There’s an empty row my gaze snares on, and I’m so elated when I reach the section and get the confirmation that one of those seats is mine.
Peering up at the overhead compartment, I’m uncertain how I’m going to stow my suitcase away without playing a stupid game of basketball when a smooth, low-timbre voice asks, “Need a hand?”
“If you could,” I say over my shoulder, and then I tip my head back to make eye contact with the guy standing behind me, andoh.
Please, God, be nice to me and have him sit down next to me for this flight.Oh, and if he could be single, live in California, and fall in love with me in the next eight hours, that would be swell.
Let it be known that I am a sucker for a nice smile, and this guy has the cutest laughter lines I’ve ever seen. They crease the corners of his dark brown eyes and crinkle even further when a pair of dimples forms around his crooked grin.
“It might make things go a lot smoother if you hand it over,” he teases, and heat blazes across my cheeks while I resist the urge to giggle or blurt out my phone number and tell him I’m free after this Sunday and possibly the rest of my life if he wants to have dinner with me. I usually have more decorum than this. I’m not usuallySchoolgirl Crush Barbie.
He takes my suitcase, and it shouldalsobe known that I’m an arms girl because I’m watching his biceps strain in his tight, heathered green shirt while he stows it away for me.
I’m not the only one. The older woman in the row behind mine is checking him out, to put it lightly, and she shamelessly licks her lips like she’s starving and he’s the last meal she’s about to have. Her husband, as well.
“Thanks for the assist,” I say, and I’m mentally waving goodbye to the hundreds of children we could have had in another life when he hikes his chin and turns his back to me. It’s for the best.
Sure, he’s fit, easy on the eyes, andsuper swoonyjust from putting away the carry-ons for the grandmothers in the aisle seats across from me without them having to ask for help, but there’s no way he’s single. Guys like him are usually locked down from the get-go.
I take my seat and pray that thethey’re watching youguy isn’t about to show up just then when he looks my way again,and I swear time slows down around us. The cabin fades into a backdrop.
