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Does she really think I’d entertain her flirting even though I’m clearly sitting with another woman? Unbelievable. As though I’d ditch my fiancée for a cheap, easy piece of ass.
Fakefiancée, I mean.
Ms. Miller’s shoulders are slumped now and I don’t like it.
“There’s not a thing I need from you,” I snap at the attendant so curtly she flinches.
There’s no reason Ms. Miller should feel second-rate around any woman, and I want to tell her that, but I’m not sure how. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as our plane taxis to the runway.
Her fingers fly a mile a minute as she hooks a strand of yarn and incorporates it into the pattern she’s working on. There’s something comforting and homey about watching her.
“What are you making?”
Her head flies up as though my words startled her. She’s pale.
“I…um…mittens.”
Her eyes are wide and her movements are stiff and jerky. Odd. Is she maybe flustered, or…
“Are you perhaps nervous, Ms. Miller?”
She lets out a whoosh of air in a big exhale. “I really don’t like flying, Mr. Steele,” she admits. “Not at all.”
She swallows hard, and as the plane begins to pick up speed, preparing to lift off, Ms. Miller drops the yarn and crochet hook on her lap. She clutches the armrests, her fingers digging into the padding.
I reach over and place my hand atop hers, and the moment I do, both her hands wrap around mine, clinging to me for dear life which sends a jolt of electricity shooting through my veins and straight to my dick.
The instant sizzle is overwhelming.
She’s soft and smells like vanilla and cinnamon, like the Christmas cookies my grandmother used to make.
“I think you should call me Cam.” I flash a wide grin in an attempt to ease her discomfort.
Her forehead wrinkles. “Excuse me?”
“‘Mr. Steele is a little formal for a fiancé, don’t you think, um…Isadora? Or do you go by Dora?”
“Oh, right, I go by Izzy.”
“Izzy, then.” I’m a little ashamed I didn’t know that. “Have you purchased your wardrobe for the week, Izzy?”
Two days ago, right after she agreed to our arrangement, I gave her a credit card as well as an itinerary of all the events my grandfather’s party planners have scheduled this year. Everything from skiing and snowboarding to taffy pulling to black-tie galas.
“Yes, but when you asked me to travel with you to your family’s for Christmas, I assumed it would be a small gathering of extended family. I never expected a weeklong party with A-list celebrities, heads of state, and other VIPs in attendance.”
“My grandfather likes to overdo it. Christmas was my grandmother’s favorite holiday. She started the tradition, and before she passed, she made him promise to carry it on. He did in a big way. I think, in his mind, it’s his way of honoring her every year. It’s a giant Christmas party to everyone else, but to him, it’s a celebration of remembrance dedicated to the love of his life.”
There’s a moment of silence between us as she stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. I’m not sure what caused that sappy confession to slip from my lips, but I’m conscious of the fact that my attempt to distract her worked. Our plane has ascended and is leveling off.
“There’s really nothing to be afraid of,” I say. “I fly all the time. And look”—I nod at the small window beside me—“we’re already in the clouds and everything’s fine.”
The corners of her lips turn up for a brief second before her smile falls and she gasps.
“Oh dear god, look what I’ve done! I’ve… Your hand. I’m so sorry.” She starts patting my hand where she dug her nails in so hard she left crescent-shaped indents in my skin.
I consider telling her I’m fine, but that might make her stop touching me, and I don’t want her to stop. It feels too good, almost as though her touch seeps into cracks and fissures and fills a place inside me that I hadn’t known was empty.
The truth is, I don’t have a lot of experience with women like Izzy. The women I date are vapid, materialistic, gold-digging types.
