Roman notices, of course. Because the man notices everything. Without a flicker of embarrassment, he lowers himself slightly and fixes the back of my shoe with two fingers.
In front of the waiting passenger. In front of God. In front of the entire aviation industry.
I stare at the ceiling while my soul leaves my body.
“There,” Roman says.
The older man clears his throat. “Congratulations on the marriage.”
I choke.
Roman’s mouth twitches. “Thank you.”
The passenger steps into the washroom, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Young people.”
“Oh my God, does everyone think we’re married?” I say, shaking my head.
“From our actions, pretty much.” He has the audacity to smile. “He’s a practical man. He made an assumption.”
I clutch his sleeve because the plane shifts, not because I want to touch him. At least, That’s what I tell myself. “This is not funny.”
“No,” Roman says, looking down at me with eyes that are far too satisfied. “It’s tragic.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I should be offended. Iamoffended.
Unfortunately, I also start laughing.
It comes out small and breathless at first, then I press my hand over my mouth to stop it because the cabin is dark and quiet and full of people who, apparently, believe I’m a shameless newlywed.
Roman watches me with an expression I cannot name. The amusement fades first. Something warmer takes its place, though he hides it quickly.
“Come,” he says. “Before you create another scandal.”
When we return to our suite, I stop so abruptly that Roman nearly walks into me.
The seats are gone.
Notgone, exactly. But transformed.
The flight attendants have made them into beds. Actual beds.
Two wide, soft, cream-covered beds stretched out side by side with pillows arranged neatly at the head and thick blankets folded back. A small lamp glows between them, casting everything in honey-colored light. My shoes have been placed carefully beneath the ottoman. My half-finished tea has vanished. The food trays are gone too, replaced by a new arrangement that makes my heart leap in a way no sophisticated woman’s heart should leap over sugar.
Dessert. Several desserts.
There is a little chocolate cake glazed so smoothly it looks like polished marble, a bowl of berries, a dish of something pale and creamy with pistachios scattered on top, two tiny fruit tarts, and a plate of dark chocolates dusted in cocoa.
I turn to Roman. “You ordered dessert?”
“You were hungry.”
“I ate half the menu.”
“And still looked at the chocolate like it had personally saved your life.”
