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I have to calm down.
She settled in the best she could for takeoff. She grabbed her headphones and eye mask. Then she spritzed her face with some refreshing rosewater to keep her hydrated during the long flight.
Another few minutes and she was in the air. When she settled back in her seat, she tried to picture home. It was difficult, having been gone for so long. The place where she grew up was so different from the European countryside and the hustle and bustle of its cities.
Actually, she didn’t often think of the ranch. Her mind flooded with images of pristine barns and cattle grazing in pastures. Of her sister Meadow in the training pen with her horses that she immersed herself in to escape the pain of their family life.
Forest was heir to the ranch. Meadow had her horses. Nobody had expectations for Ivy. But she had a lot for herself.
At least there were the mountains. They always filled Ivy with peace.
However, taking a mental walk through the big ranch house only flooded her with dread. There wasn’t a single corner that wasn’t filled with memories—of her mom, her brother, of happier times.
She yanked the silk mask over her eyes and attempted to block out everything. But minutes later, she heard the flight attendant pushing the drink cart up the aisle. When Ivy pushed the mask upward on her forehead to ask for a drink, a man seated next to her caught her eye.
Oh no. She hated chatty passengers. They always came with too many questions, each seeming to be directly aimed to give her more pain.
“Where are you going?” had a dark undercurrent she did not wish to share.
“Where are you from?” was another terrible conversation starter, since long ago she’d stopped feeling like she had any home at all.
She gave the man a small smile and nod of acknowledgement, hoping that was enough to satisfy him. With such a long flight ahead of them, Ivy doubted she’d get out of talking to the guy completely, but this would gain her a few more minutes at least.
Purposely rolling her head the other direction , she got a view of a guy directly across the aisle. After so much travel, she knew people. Over time, it became second nature to lump people into groups. Those who lacked money, those with too much of it. People with ready smiles and those wearing perpetual scowls as if life hadn’t been on their side.
Then she began to pick out the Americans from the crowd. Grouping them was a little easier since she was one too. And this guy had to be military.
His big, muscled body seemed to overflow the small seat. He sat taller than everyone around him. He didn’t wear military clothing, but that didn’t mean much. He was dressed like everyone else, in jeans and a button-down shirt. Across his knees he’d draped a worn—almost beat-up—leather coat.
His chiseled profile had her thinking of sculptures from the masters that she’d seen in the Louvre in Paris. His mussed brown hair dropped in a swoop over his forehead, far from military protocol, and it was rumpled as though he’d just run his fingers through it.
He suddenly turned his head and pierced her in his gaze. The slate gray of his eyes reminded her of the sea on the cliffs of Cornwall, England, after a storm.
His cocked brow was almost a challenge.
Ivy sat up straighter and met his gaze for a full three heartbeats. He didn’t seem to be breaking eye contact either.
Luckily, the flight attendant pushed the cart between them, ending their stare-down.
The woman gave her a pleasant smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“A mimosa, please.”
The woman started reaching for the orange juice, and Ivy stopped her. “Excuse me. Where are the oranges in the juice sourced from?”
A manly grunt sounded from the other side of the beverage cart.
“Let me see if the container tells me where the oranges are grown.”
“I prefer organic.”
After a moment, the attendant said, “I’m sorry—it isn’t organic. Do you still want the mimosa?”
“Yes. But only if the sparkling wine is really dry.”
A louder grunt came from beyond the cart. She could guess who made that masculine sound—and that he was approximately six-two with a sharp, cleanshaven jaw.
“We never have complaints about the mimosas we serve, miss.”
