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“Do you want to talk about what happened tonight?” Mya asked softly as she sat next to me.
Sighing, I closed the worn-out Dean Koontz book I’d been reading—my go-to comfort read when I was nervous. Yeah, reading a serial killer thriller as a “comfort read” sounded a bit off even in my head.
“Well, a lot has happened tonight, buttercup,” I teased, stealing Oliver’s nickname for her, earning myself a playful elbow in the side before she started to fasten her seat belt. “What exactly happened that we need to talk about?”
“What that date of yours said tonight at dinner about—”
“Friend-zoning me?” I said under my breath, somehow not feeling the stain of embarrassment crawl into my cheeks. I’d already pretty much admitted to Mya one late night six or so weeks ago I’d mistakenly started to confuse our friendship for more.
“Yeah, why’d you tell her that?” Mya lifted a dark brow, which didn’t match her new blonde hair color.
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, stifling my groan the best I could. Why did I tell her that? No clue.
My mom’s advice from forever and a day ago came to mind: “Don’t be friends with women you’re attracted to—nine out of ten times it doesn’t end well.”
“And what, I can’t be the exception?” I’d replied. “Pretty sure Dad was the exception for you,” I’d reminded her, peering at my father reading the newspaper across the table.
Mom had been worried I’d eventually fall for Gray’s sister, Natasha. But she’d fallen for one of our close friends instead, and that hadn’t ended well. And now Gray’s sister was married to Gwen’s father, Wyatt. So, it all worked out in the end.
“We are friends, right?” Mya reached for my arm and gave it a squeeze. Well, she tried. I’d been spending more time at the gym to alleviate my “tension,” and my biceps were a bit “more” lately. I was pretty sure that was the word Gwen had used to describe them the other day.
After a quick look around the cabin to ensure we didn’t have eyes or ears, I told Mya, “Yeah, we are friends. That was just some verbal vomiting earlier. Not used to speed dating I guess.”
Part of me wanted to tell Mya the truth, to tell her why I was more messed up in the head than usual. To tell her about the blonde with blue-green eyes that I couldn’t shake from my thoughts. The one dimple that had killed me every time it’d appeared when I’d had her laughing. Or how her fingers would drum the column of her throat every so often, a habit I was pretty sure she was unaware she kept doing, but . . .
“Who are you thinking about?” Mya’s question rumbled through my head. Great, caught daydreaming again.
“No one.” I frowned and flipped open the book, but she set her hand over mine and closed it.
“Don’t lie to me. There’s someone on your mind, I can feel it. Come on, out with it. If we’re friends, talk to me. I tell you things all the time.”
I grumbled, “Not everything.”
“No, just the important things.” She smiled.
I looked over where Oliver was talking to Gwen and Carter. Our “third wheel”—aka the Marine—was sitting alone near the cockpit.
“How are we doing this?” I deflected. “Four of us guys. Two of y’all. You said we have to couple up or something at this event? We’re short two women.” And who will you pick? Oliver or Mason?
“We’ll figure it out,” she said, waving a dismissive hand as if it were no big deal.
Another thing Mom said when I was fumbling my way through my dating years, before I married Jill, “The man the woman acts like she can’t stand is more than likely the one she wants.”
“Mom, I think you read too much.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘reading too much,’” was all she shot back. “And your dad benefits from my reading.”
“TMI, Mom. TMI.” My return volley had been delivered with an inner cringe and an outer wince. I’d still been in high school during that conversation, but hell, if Mom was alive today, I’d say the same to her.
Was it so wrong that I wanted the kind of love my parents had shared? Dad died shortly after her. Like he hadn’t been able to go on breathing air without her there.
My parents had me at an older age, so it wasn’t like they’d died young. Late seventies. But that didn’t change the pain of their loss.
A chill crept down my neck at the memories of losing them, and I focused on the man Mya “couldn’t stand”—Oliver.
Before I had a chance to continue the conversation that I didn’t want to have with Mya, Carter flicked his wrist, motioning for us to join them. Mason was on his feet, too. The turbulence seemed to obey Carter as well, and the plane went still. Of course that man could control the skies. Made perfect sense.
I set aside the book, unbuckled, and trailed behind Mya to get to the others.
