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But this morning? With that fresh shower glow? Dripping water on shimmering skin?
Gulp.
Oh, yeah. I remember now.
Penis penis penis?—
Stop it.
It was just a penis. A humorous anecdote between co-workers. I’m sure it happens to most people who travel together at least once. Although… okay, I never once saw Graham’s appendage in the… five years we’ve traveled the world together. Wait, is that right?
I do the quick math in my head.
Yeah, that’s right.
Focus, Paige.
Another quick shake of the head and I turn back to my book. Once again, I skim up to re-read the paragraphs I missed during my penis frenzy.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.”
I glance up, happily acknowledging the omnipotent voice and embracing the dickstraction.
Distraction.
The hell is wrong with me?
“We’re about an hour out of New York City right now and might run into a little turbulence between here and there, so please remain seated with your seatbelts on. Don’t hesitate to hit that call button with any concerns, and a flight attendant will be right with you. Thank you.”
I exhale at the dark clouds through the small window. Turbulence. Oh, goody. As I reach for my seatbelt, I notice Oliver’s white-knuckle grip on his armrest in the chair next to mine. Come to think of it, I’ve hardly seen him move a muscle since the plane took off. He’s had his seatbelt on this entire time, too...
I study him for another minute. Board-stiff posture. Wide-open eyes. The not-so-subtle flinch as a flight attendant suddenly passes him.
Oliver hates flying, obviously, but could it be more than that?
Is Oliver afraid of flying?
I look back at my book, but guilt stabs my gut before I can read another sentence.
Come on, girl.
Be a friend.
I set my book down on the tray in front of me. “So, Oliver,” I say, clearing my throat. He turns his head in my direction, but that grip on the seat doesn’t loosen. “We have a lot to get through today, so I’ll start on room checks if you want to touch base with Miranda first.”
Oliver nods. “Sounds good.”
“Then, maybe a quick lunch?” I keep talking. “Greg, the chef in New York, makes an amazing Sicilian sandwich.”
“All right.”
“It’s way too big for me to eat alone, though. Graham and I usually split one.”
He gives a nod, his face dull and pale.
On second thought, maybe food isn’t what Oliver wants to talk about right now.
“Have you ever been to New York before?” I ask.
