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She’s shaking.
I frown. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” She gives me a tight smile. “I’ll be fine.”
She doesn’t look fine.
“Be honest about why you’re here early,” I say, trying for humor. “You’re going to squeeze in an Oprah sighting, aren’t you?” Oprah owns a massive estate in Montecito, and people see her around town every so often.
“Harry and Meghan are my primary targets, actually,” Nora replies, referring to Santa Barbara county’s even more famous residents. Her smile loosens, touches her eyes. “I hear they take Archie and Lilibet to the beach, so that’s where I’ll be headed.”
I shouldn’t be playful with her—she’s on my fucking flight, which means she’ll probably be at my fucking hotel because she’s fancy like that, probably ruining the one fucking night I have to myself in one of my favorite places in the world—but my lips twitch anyway. I made her smile, and I . . . don’t hate it?
“Makes sense,” I say. “Beaches are great there.”
Nora furrows her brow. “You’re familiar with Santa Barbara?”
“I’d live there if I could.”
She turns her head to look at me from the corner of her eye. “Are you a secret surfing enthusiast or something?”
“Nah. Just love Gwyneth Paltrow. She recently moved to the area.”
“Ah. You’re a goop fan.”
“Have been since she taught me how to steam my—”
“Don’t.”
“Vegetables. Since she taught me how to steam my vegetables. Wow, Frasier, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say your mind is in the gutter.”
“It would be, if it weren’t so preoccupied by the fact that I might have just lost my biggest client.” She offers me that tight smile again, and the easy rapport between us evaporates as if it were never there to begin with. “Have a nice flight.”
Yes, I totally deserve the cold shoulder she’s suddenly giving me, but it still feels like a slap across the face nonetheless. When we met, I was one hundred percent certain she had the world’s biggest stick up her ass. But I’m learning she has a wicked sense of humor. She can be fun and funny and caring at the most inconvenient times, and it’s almost making me like her.
Almost. I know better than to fall for her charms. She’s playing to win, just like me.
But then she turns to the right, joining the line for zones two through five, and something in my chest softens. “You’re not up front?”
She glances at me over her shoulder. “Upgrades were sold out. But never fear.” She digs into that enormous tote of hers and pulls out a neck pillow that’s mystifyingly stamped with tiny images of Queen Elizabeth’s face. “I came prepared. I always try to catch up on sleep when I travel. Kate Moss said planes are for boozing and snoozing, and I’ve found those two things definitely make the whole ordeal less painful, you know? I don’t always fall asleep, but I do try, and a couple drinks definitely help. I took a Klonopin once, but that just made my legs go numb, which was cool but also kind of terrifying, so now I just stick to good old alcohol because I know my limits. Or at least I hope I know my limits. I am in my thirties now . . .”
Now her voice is shaking too. She’s babbling.
Oh, she’s definitely nervous. I know the signs—Mom hates to fly, and she gets all shaky and talkative like that too before a flight.
Nora did cost me a hundred grand this week. But I’m not going to let her white-knuckle it back in coach while I get drunk and nap peacefully in first class. Having more room up front in a cushy seat won’t make turbulence go away. But it will make her a hell of a lot more comfortable. There’s free booze too, which always helps.
I back up a little to make room in the first-class line. “Get over here.”
She blinks. “Are you trying to steal my neck pillow?”
“As much as I admire Her Majesty, you can keep it. I’m giving you my seat.”
I can’t believe I’m saying the words, and apparently neither can she. Her eyes go wide and she looks at me for a long beat, frozen to the spot.
“What’s the catch?”
I roll my eyes. “No catch. Now fucking get over here before I change my mind. You’re nervous about the flight, I can tell.”
Nora does as I say, coming to stand a step too close to me because the line is tight here. The smell of her perfume fills my head, and when she lifts her eyes to meet mine, my blood jumps. Wisps of hair escape the knot on her head and frame her face, and I suddenly can’t stop staring at her mouth.
Would she taste like coffee or toothpaste? What about between her legs? What would she taste like there?
