“Um.” Then, realizing that is a very not-okay reply, I say, “It wasn’t this bad last time.” I also hadn’t just misplaced my belongings during an international business trip while accompanied by a man who lives from a suitcase, literally.
“I remember.” Arthur’s voice is saturated with concentration. He sounds exactly the same as Grand Prix Arthur, as if my impending nervous breakdown is an upcoming high-speed corner. “What normally helps?”
“Not being on a plane?” I press two fingers into either side of my forehead and start massaging. “Okay, sorry. I don’t know. Usually I can meditate when I’m freaked out, but the vibration is too much and I kind of feel like I’m going to—”
The plane begins to move and my eyes fly shut. This is so embarrassing. Why does Arthur have to be the one to see me like this? He drivesrace carsfor a living. Flying has to be relaxing in comparison.
This must make me look so… Kentucky.
“Shit,” Arthur exhales. “Okay, hey, here.”
There’s a click. He’s pushed the armrest between us up, champagne bottle moved. Then I feel him gently pull me closer to his side and…
He’s holding me.
Arthur ishuggingme.
He moves so quickly, my panic attack is shocked out of existence. One second, I’m in my seat, normal, and the next, his arm is circling my shoulders and his fingers are wrapping around my arm, where my T-shirt ends and my skin begins.
“You-you don’t need to do this,” I whisper.
“I know,” he whispers back. “Is it working?”
For someone so large and fast, he’s very calm. And very, very warm. And I lean into him because my breath was turning into leadmoments ago, and now… now it’s not. Now I have his sparkling-champagne scent whisking away the stomach-cramping smell of sterile, recycled air. I have the thick weight of his arm to keep me from floating away, his heavy muscles anchoring my body.
Safe.
This feels like I’m protected.
“Yeah.” I bite my cheek. “Thanks.”
“Anything for you.”
Snorting, I peek at his face. Still the same Arthur. Sharp nose, electric eyes, too-big mouth. Looking at him is comforting, mostly because he lifts one brow and gives me thatwhat are you staring at?frown that’s kind of become our thing.
“Someone is definitely going to see this,” I say.
“Your master plan at work.”
I giggle, and the plane-death fear coiled in my abdomen relaxes another centimeter. “Is this typically how you introduce your girlfriends to the team?”
“Oh, so you’re my girlfriend now.” His body rumbles. He’s laughing, and we’re so close I canfeelit through his chest. “Can’t say I’ve had enough to know the proper protocol.”
My stomach sinks. It isn’t front-page news that he’s not the relationship type, but I’d sort of been holding on to the idea that his mystery radio woman was… important. Long term. An indication that Arthur has secret romantic depths he hid from the world, and his heartbreaker reputation had been exaggerated by the press. Not because I care about who he dates or how often he does it. More like, on the off chance someone in the documentary industry does hear about me cuddling up to Arthur Bianco, inebriated from his European cologne, they might think I’m special to him.
But this is okay, too. For the best! I’m fake-dating a pro, and I force my train of thought back on track and say, “We’ve beenaround each other almost every day for a month straight. If you were actually interested in me, I think this is what you’d do. To show people your, um, interest.”
“Ah.”
One of his fingertips slips beneath the hem of my shirtsleeve. Mindlessly, running up and down. His fingers are warm and slightly rough, calloused in places I didn’t expect. Must be from the steering wheel. Right when I realize he’s found a long-healed-over scar, tracing the raised length of it curiously, he starts talking again.
“What else would I do? To show interest?”
Ignoring what’s clearly an attempt to fluster me, I think about the big romantic gestures I’ve seen in movies, then shrink the airport runs and boom-box lifts down to the size of Arthur’s emotional landscape. Public displays of affection like this feel huge for a known playboy, ground-shaking, and I don’t really know where to go from here. “You’d probably try to buy me things.Nota coffee shop.”
“Clothing?”
“No.”
