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3. Fate's Connection
Jules
This day has been nothing short of a disaster. I’ve come to the conclusion that fate is playing a wicked joke on me. The short flight to Denver was delayed, and that led to me missing the connecting flight to Seattle. So I ended up roaming the airport for hours, mostly fighting tears. I’m not used to being on my own, and now that I am all I want to do is go back and crawl into bed forever.
But I can’t.
Returning home will surely hurt more than pushing forward. Once I reach Seattle, things will be all right, and this crushing weight on my heart will ease up.
At least I got a consolation prize for the hours I waited stuck between the past I’m leaving behind and the future I hope to find; the airline upgraded me to first class. Letting out a long sigh of relief, I sink into the comfortable leather seat. I’m more than ready to put this hellish day behind me, even if hurtling through the air at five-hundred miles per hour isn’t my idea of fun.
Most of the passengers in first class have already settled into their seats and are waiting for takeoff, but a few clutter the aisle as they stow carry-on luggage. I avert my attention to the small window at my right, my nerves over flying already kicking in, and watch two men load luggage into the baggage compartment. From the corner of my eye, I notice the movement of bodies as more people board the plane and head toward the back. The seat next to me remains empty, and I’m beginning to hope I’ll get the row to myself.
Of course, that’s when he slides in next to me.
He’s tall enough that even first class doesn’t accommodate his legs comfortably. I can’t help but ogle his forearms. I have a thing for forearms, and my mind immediately goes to Chris and the definition of his muscles.
Don’t go there. Don’t think about his arms or anything else about him.
With a mental shove, I send Chris spiraling to the back of my mind. That’s a good place for him right now, especially since I have no intention of having a meltdown on this plane. I go back to studying the stranger beside me. He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a navy button-up shirt, left untucked with the cuffs rolled up. A guy doesn’t need an eight-pack or bulging biceps to catch my eye. He just has to have sexy-as-fuck forearms, and this man does.
His entire body exudes masculinity, making these first-class seats seem small. Mr. Sexy Stranger owns the space, texting single-handedly as he pushes his fingers through thick dark hair, disrupting the longer length on top. The gesture is quick and rigid, as if something is irritating him. I’m openly staring now, my gaze drifting over the stubble along his strong jawline. Good God, he’s a fine specimen of a man.
My face amps hotter by the second. I’ve never experienced such a strong gravitational pull toward a stranger, and after everything that’s gone down today, the fact that it’s happening now unsettles me.
It’s the stress. It’s finally making me crack, making me turn into a total lunatic.
He angles his head my way, and our eyes lock. My heart stops. Time suspends. Holy shit. I’m a deer caught in the high beams of a speeding car at midnight.
Blind-sided.
Paralyzed.
His eyes are the color of steel, a shade so deep they resemble the most ominous of storms. He raises a dark brow, forehead crinkling in surprise, and I come back to myself with a mental jerk, realizing how stupid I must look right now. And how unkempt I am from all the crying I did as I wandered for hours through the airport. I pray to God the concealer I applied in the ladies’ room hides all traces of my epic breakdown.
“Hi,” I manage to say, practically sighing the greeting. My face flushes, and I quickly look away, utterly mortified.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Maybe exhaustion stole my sanity. Or maybe it’s the situation. No names, no attachments, no disgraceful scandals. We’ll part ways as soon as the plane lands in Seattle, and I’ll never see this man again. The anonymity of the situation has to be the reason I’m reacting to the stranger next to me as if he’s a demigod.
“Fear of flying?” the demigod says, his voice laden with a sexy timbre that sends chills through me.
I return my attention to him and…fuck…those eyes. “I-I’m sorry?”
A smile ghosts across his face, revealing a dimple in his right cheek.
“You seem a bit…” He trails off, gesturing to my fingers, which have somehow found themselves wrapped around the armrest. “Terrified.”
Terrified is an understatement, but I’ll take it since the alternatives don’t make a shred of sense. Letting out a breath, I loosen my grip and shoot Mr. Sexy Stranger a weak smile.
“Maybe a little. Me and flying…we don’t have a great relationship.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve flown, and I’ll never be comfortable with putting my life in the hands of fate.
Fate. There’s that word again.
But the term fits because flying feels a bit like rolling the dice and hoping for the best. Statistically, I know traveling by air is safer than driving a car, but logic can be a funny thing when feelings are mixed into the equation.
He buckles his seat belt. “There’s nothing to it. If they didn’t make us wear these things,” he says, pulling the strap tight across his thighs, “I wouldn’t bother.” Dipping his head toward me as if he’s about to impart a great secret, he adds, “Between you and me, I don’t like flying either.”
