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Neil ducked through the door behind me. “Well, let me think. New York to Reykjavik is about six hours, add on five from Marquette, and with the weather conditions…” He paused thoughtfully. “Do you think it will give us enough time?”
“Oh, shut up,” I said with a laugh.
Our flight attendant, Micky, was a very polished, professional man who appeared to be in his early forties. He took our coats and informed us that we’d made a good call on switching our travel plans: “They are supposed to be getting slammed with snow today.”
“So we heard,” Neil told him, dropping into one of the seats to unlace his boots. “Please tell me that the catering company came through. I’d hate to spend ten hours in the air without anything to eat or drink.”
“Everything is on board. Do you have a particular time you’d like the food prepared, or—”
“No, no.” Neil shook his head. “We’ll let you know. For the most part, we prefer to fly undisturbed.”
“I understand you perfectly,” Micky agreed, and disappeared into the forward galley.
I raised an eyebrow at Neil. “He understands you perfectly. Which me
ans he’s used to people getting nasty in midair.”
“That is exactly what that meant.” Neil kicked his boots off and slumped down in his seat. The jet was set up with three rows of two-across seats, like a regular plane. Two flat-screen monitors were installed, so we could watch movies or check our flight’s progress by GPS, and to the rear of the compartment was a small hospitality station. A pocket door led to a compartment with more seats, and a dining area that converted to a bed for overnight flights. The jet was beautiful and comfortable, but practical; Neil didn’t even keep a full-time flight crew, but hired them when necessary.
I took the seat next to him and buckled up while the flight attendant closed the door. “Well, I think our visit could have gone worse.”
“Yes. If you had waited until we were at the door to let me know what I was walking into, it would have gone much worse,” he said wryly. He took my hand and kissed it to let me know he wasn’t as mad at me as he had been. “You know…your mother’s house is terribly small.”
“I know. It helped me adjust to dorm life and New York apartments.” I snickered at my own joke. I’d been weirdly proud of my trailer-bound childhood when I’d first moved to the city. You think this is bad? I’d say when Holli complained about our dinky NYU dorm. You should have seen my room back home.
“Would she…” he hesitated, and I knew what was coming. “Would she be terribly offended if we gave her money to build a house?”
“Neil…we have a lot going on right now. We’re buying a house. You’re paying for Emma’s wedding. At like, the least cheap venue I can think of.” Emma had decided to get married at the Museum of Natural History in New York City, and as the wedding planning had gone forward, the totals had shocked me. Emma’s mother, Valerie, had offered to go halfsies, but she was navigating a messy financial split from her long-time partner, and Neil had insisted on covering three-quarters of the total to reduce her cost.
“No, the least cheap venue was Lake bloody Bracciano,” he muttered.
His ex-wife had insisted on marrying in Italy.
I wondered if his bad marriage to Elizabeth had soured him on tying the knot forever. If that were the case, it was fine by me; I could live happily without ever getting married. Okay, maybe I was sour grapes-ing a little. I had just said no major life changes, but we hadn’t even discussed marriage since the last time he’d brought it up, during his chemotherapy. He wanted to buy a house with me, so I knew he considered us long term, if not permanent. But with all the talk of Emma’s wedding, I’d begun to wonder why my traditional—sometimes infuriatingly so—boyfriend hadn’t mentioned the possibility of one for us.
“Don’t buy my mom a house. At least, not right now,” I told him, getting back to the original discussion. “She has a lot of pride, and she doesn’t like you very much.”
“Fair enough.”
It wouldn’t be the last time the subject came up, I knew. Neil hated running into problems he couldn’t throw money at.
We fastened our belts for take-off, and once we were safely in the air and had the all-clear, we unbuckled and headed to the rear compartment.
“No bed?” I asked, trailing my fingers over the tabletop between the two rows of inward facing seats.
“I don’t think we need one yet,” Neil said, unbuttoning the sleeves of his chambray shirt to roll them back. It struck me that he was dressed pretty much the way he had been the day we’d met, except that beneath the open outer shirt, his tee sported the red, white, and blue target logo of The Who. That day at the airport seven years ago, he’d had on a David Bowie tour shirt. I wondered if he always equated classic rock acts of the seventies with air travel.
“I have a game in mind,” he continued, sliding the pocket door closed. There was a little latch on it, and he flicked it down. “Are you interested?”
“Always.”
“Then get naked and get your ass on that table.”
“Yes, Sir!” As I readily complied with his order, he took something out of a seat pocket. A deck of cards. So, it really was a game.
“Is something funny?” he asked, a delicious hint of warning in his tone as he slid smoothly into his role as my Dom.
I shook my head. “No, Sir. Just anticipation.”
