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One
Hamlet
Iclutchthearmsof my seat as the plane begins its descent. My pulse quickens, beads of perspiration popping up along my forehead. The air seems to solidify around me, choking me, no longer compatible with life. My sight blurs at the edges.
“Are you okay?” Though the pretty brunette sits just a few inches away, her voice sounds distorted, like we're speaking on cell phones with a bad connection.
I squeeze my eyes shut but nod. “Fine,” I say through clenched teeth.
I’m not fine. Not even a little bit.
There are few things I enjoy more than traveling. I love to visit new places, meet new people, and try new things.
But I loathe flying.
No, that’s not true. I loathelanding.
Flying is the safest form of travel, I remind myself. I’m safe. The brunette is safe. Everyone is safe. Totally safe. Safe safe safe.
Statistically speaking, it’s God’s honest truth. But the mantra does nothing to calm my nerves. Because I happen to know what else the statistics say. Right now, this very second, is the absolute most dangerous time to be on an airplane.
I can practically feel the Grim Reaper standing over me, waiting for the plane to crash into the ground and erupt into a massive fireball.
My chest tightens. My skin is clammy. I’m going to pass out.
At least I’ll be unconscious when the pilot botches the landing and kills us all.
A second later, the plane lands, rolling down the runway at top speed. I wait for it to stop, but it doesn’t.
This is it. We’re going to hurtle off the runway in 5...4…3…2…
The brakes engage and the plane slams to a halt. My eyes pop open, and I suck in a deep breath. Relief washes over me as my chest expands with the intake of fresh air. I pry my fingers from the arms of my seat, wiggling them to get the circulation moving again.
“Can you get my carry-on bag for me?” the brunette asks.
I glance up and see that she’s already standing, joining the queue to file off the plane.
I force a grin to my face before standing to reach into the overhead compartment for her bag. “At your service.”
The line jostles, pushing the brunette closer to me. She rests her hands on my chest and gazes up at me through heavily mascaraed lashes. Her lips twist into a flirtatious smile. “What other services do you provide?”
She’s pretty, with big, brown eyes and a heart-shaped mouth. She’d be fun for the night.
But I find myself shaking my head. “I’m afraid I won’t be in Charlotte long enough for anything else.”
She pouts, opening her mouth to say something. Fortunately, the airplane doors open, and the line starts to move. With a disappointed shake of her head, she turns to walk down the aisle.
The truth is, I could stay in Charlotte for the night—and probably should. It’s already nine-o-clock, and I’m exhausted. But I’ve been traveling home from Australia for three days straight, with layovers in as many cities. Now, Mercury Ridge is just a four-hour drive away. I stifle a yawn as I make my way to the long-term parking lot.
Nothing is going to keep me from sleeping in my own bed tonight.
Nothing.
Not even a pretty girl.
Two
Hamlet
