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“A Christian Mingle account.”
I loll my head back against the headrest. “Never tried online dating myself.”
“Not even Timber? I thought all you young folks were swiping on Timber these days.”
I bite back a laugh. “Do you mean Tinder?”
“Potato, pot-ah-to.” She shakes her head dismissively, fingers tapping on her armrest. “All that swiping ain’t good for you, anyway.”
She runs a critical eye over me, taking in my rainbow-striped sweater, mom jeans, mismatched socks, and beaded hoop earrings. I imagine my style to be bohemian and carefree. Starving artist chic. Minus the starving part because, like Shakira, my hips don’t lie.
In reality, however, I usually end up looking less “boho princess,” more “color blind kindergarten teacher who got dressed in the dark.”
“So, if you’re not online dating,” she asks. “I suppose you have a boyfriend?”
“Very much single.” I say this brightly and with finality, hoping this will put a pin in this particular portion of the In-Flight Entertainment. I open a bag of Haribo and hold it out, but the lady is undeterred.
“And why is that, dearie? Pretty girl like you.”
I made a string of mistakes that led me to lose everything I worked so hard for.
Luckily, before I can think of how to respond aloud, I’m saved (kind of) by another announcement over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, due to unforeseen issues with the plane’s operating system, we will be stalling here at the gate until further notice. We hope to have an engineer clear us for take off in a few minutes, and I’ll give you an update from the flight deck when I have one. In the meantime, thank you for your patience.”
A collective sigh rises from around the plane. I can practically feel the bristling, prickly energy from Grumpypants (formerly known as “Broody Man”—he’s been upgraded. Or downgraded, perhaps. It’s kind of a Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Diddy situation.)
I reflexively glance at him as he sets down his paper, and for the first time, I get a good look at him.
Wowzers.
He’s… hot. Like, super hot.
His face would be handsome to the point of annoying—all sharp angles and perfect symmetry and dark eyes that smolder for days—if it wasn’t for an endearing imperfection that softens him. Makes him more interesting. The small, pale scar on his cheekbone, right above his stubble, is the only blemish on an otherwise smooth, olive-toned landscape. It’s beautiful.
And I must have a death wish. Because my hand suddenly twitches with a crazy urge to run my finger over the scar.
Unfortunately, the hand that twitches also happens to be the hand holding my family-size bumper pack of Starmix.
A rainbow of corn syrup and gelatin flies into the air, sprinkling like confetti over us.
“Oh no!” I squeak. “My snacks!”
Grumpy doesn’t say anything, just raises a large hand to silence me.
It works. Mostly because I’m, once again, stunned by his rudeness.
I take a deep breath, try to be empathetic. Maybe he has a reason for being like this… like his dog died this morning. Or he lost his wallet. Or he has really bad diarrhea.
You can’t judge someone for being rude during a bout of the stomach flu, can you?
The guy opens his mouth and it almost looks like he might say something… but then, his eyes meet mine and we hold eye contact for a long, loaded moment.
He seems to think better of whatever he was going to say and his mouth presses into a stern line. He picks up the suit jacket draped across his muscular thighs and shakes it out, scattering the rogue Haribo candies on the floor.
“I can’t possibly think of why you’re single,” he says flatly.
My psychotic urge to touch him fizzles like a match dropped in water as I stare at him in shock.
“And I can’t possibly think of whyyouthink I’d want your opinion,” I retort. Because never mind not judging. I have every right to be the judgiest judge ever.
