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Cash laughs. “Then I guess you’re wrong about me, Grace.”
“Hm?” I ask, with a twinkle in my eye.
Am I flirting? Oh, yes, I definitely am.
“I’m not interested in challenging women…at least not for the next few days.”
Our banter is interrupted by the flight attendant running through safety protocols. The brilliance of first class is that as soon as we are in the air, our glasses are refilled and a plane ride that might have been awkward sitting next to this flirtatious man has turned into foreplay.
Every few seconds I feel his gaze traveling my skin; there’s a perpetual warmth to his eyes that makes me tingle as if he is dragging a match against my body.
I open up a magazine, trying to distract myself.This has been fun, but let’s be honest, nothing is going to happen. We’ll get off this plane and he’ll spot his next conquest. Someone he actually wants to spend time with. Not me—the woman he’s forced to endure for the next few hours. It’s obviously the forced proximity that is making him talk to me.
Although, why is he leaning closer and darting glances at me every few seconds? That’s not explained just by our seat choices.
He seems interested.
But what the hell do I know? I haven’t flirted with a man in years. Although, men have certainly flirted with me. My clients, who quite honestly are very similar to Cash—wealthy playboys—always flirt with me. But it’s in their nature. They don’t know how to turn it off. Until I teach them, that is.
You can’t decide to change your playboy ways and seek out a future wife if you still talk to every woman like you’re going to fuck them. It’s part of the service we offer. We don’t only find these men their match, we train them on how to be in a monogamous relationship, how to treat a woman. It’s the reason Vanity Fair did a piece on our firm last year.
The Happily Ever After Makers.
We earned the title. Every match Marion has orchestrated has resulted in long, monogamous, happy marriages. There are no headlines about Mr. Daniels being caught with his mistress.
Which is precisely why my husband’s affair cannot be divulged. How would it look if the partner of Boston’s most prestigious matchmaking company couldn’t train her own husband to remain faithful?
I dart a glance at the man next to me. Maybe he’s not purposefully sitting close. His shoulders are broad, and his long legs jut out into the aisle, even with the extra leg room that the first row provides. He’s definitely over six feet tall. His nails are all the same length, more evidence of the money he obviously comes from. His olive skin tone and dark, almost wind-swept hair, à la Patrick Dempsey, makes me want to tangle my hands through it.
He's easily one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen. I stare at the left finger, the tell-tale one, looking for a hint of a wedding ring. So many men take them off when they travel. But the color on that finger is even. No indentation at all.
Likely single.
I stare down at the obvious indentation on my own finger. I haven’t been in the sun in months so there is no line to hide. But it feels bare. I feel like the finger keeps lifting, as if taunting me; it’s lighter than normal and foreign. Or maybe it’s just the champagne.
The captain announces that we’ve hit the appropriate altitude and we can take off our seatbelts. I adjust myself but leave mine in place, always prepared for worst-case scenarios.
Not surprisingly, Cash undoes his seatbelt and stands up to stretch. Of course, he would never be worried about worst-case scenarios. Men like him don’t have bad things happen to them. They control everything.
Not that I’d mind being controlled by him for a few hours.
Slutty, slutty mind. Get yourself under control.
While Cash looks toward the back of the plane, I take my time looking him up and down. I was right, he is definitely taller than six feet, and his shoulders look even broader up there. His size blocks the entire aisle. He’s definitely younger than I am. Hopefully not by a lot.
Maybe he’s into older women, my dirty mind taunts.
I’m thirty-six. That can’t be considered an older woman. Can it? Although, I feel forty. Or older. I feel ancient if I’m honest. Like my lower bits have dried up and I’m past my prime.
I always thought I’d have more time. Later we’ll have kids, I told myself. Later we’ll take vacations. Later we’ll have sex. What I didn’t realize was that my husband was preparing to do those things with someone else.
Later was eight p.m. when I thought he was still in the office, but instead he was sleeping with his secretary.
Stop! You are not thinking about this. Focus on the hot guy who keeps flirting with you.
“Grace,” he whispers into my ear, jolting me from my thoughts. I hadn’t even realized he’d sat back down. His warm breath sends a shiver down my spine, precisely as I knew it would.
I turn my head slowly and meet his penetrating gaze. “Yes?”
