“Yes.” I stroke his hand a little more firmly, trying to get him to relinquish his grip on the seat. “We’ll be leveling out soon.”
“Do you fly a lot?”
“A fair amount. For work. We have offices in Manhattan, London, and Sydney, so I end up traveling every couple of months.”
“Wow. That’s alotof flying.”
I chuckle. “I don’t mind. I get to meet interesting people when I travel.”
He opens his eyes and peers at me. “More interesting than me, I bet.”
“No. You were definitely included in that statement.”
His smile returns, a little more solid and a lot less wobbly this time, big enough to reveal that he has dimples. Damn, they’re adorable. He’s still clinging to the chair, though. I have dimples too, but mine are hidden by my beard.
“You were going to tell me about your hair,” I prompt.
It’s about as long as you can get while still being classed as short, very dark brown, almost black, with every color of the rainbow shimmering in it. It reminds me of the colors you might see in an oil slick: beautiful and iridescent.
“It’s hair dye, that’s all. You could do it.”
“Hmm… I’m not sure my boss would be happy if I did. It looks great on you, though.”
He blushes. He’s even prettier when his cheeks are pink, rather than sheet white. He’s got dark brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and a smile that lights up the plane. He’s wearing a silver chain that’s tucked into his black t-shirt, and he has two black lines tattooed around his right forearm, about an inch below his elbow, the top one twice as thick as the other. If he weren’t terrified, I’d be tempted to chat him up. He doesn’t need someone hitting on him right now. He needs a Daddy to take care of him.
The flight attendant who coaxed him onto the plane comes and crouches at the end of our row. “How are you feeling now?” she asks with a smile.
“Scared.”
She passes him two plastic cups over me, one with water and the other with ice. “I find it helps to hold an ice cube in each hand. I end up so cold I can’t think about my fear. You’re doing great.” She gives me a friendly nod and then moves toward the back of the plane, where the refreshments are stored.
“You must think I’m pathetic,” Ty murmurs.
“Not at all. I’m fine with planes, but if there was a spider, I’d be squealing and begging someone to get rid of it for me.”
He laughs. “You’re not scared of spiders.”
“I am. Terrified. Full on arachnophobia. Even a tiny spider sends me into a screaming fit. At least your fear is less irrational.”
“I dunno. You go to Australia. Everything’s dangerous there.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Sydney’s a pretty safe place. My point is, everyone’s scared of something. It doesn’t make you pathetic.”
“Thanks.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“For taking care of me. You don’t have to.”
“I want to. Is talking helping?”
He nods.
I glance at his hands. His knuckles are still white and, now that his blush has faded, his face is painfully pale again.
“Is there anything else I can do to help you relax?”
He drops his gaze to my hand, which is still resting over his, my thumb brushing back and forth gently over his skin. “Keep doing that?” He phrases it as a question, rather than a request, his voice soft and fragile.
