Page 52 of Never To Be Mine

By the time we reached the hangar, I’d rehearsed and discarded about fifty different opening lines. None of them felt right. I usually didn’t have a problem talking to women I’d kissed, but I also didn’t usually kiss women I worked with. Plus, Juno wasn’t just any old woman. She fascinated me in an undeniable way.

We boarded the plane in silence. She took a seat by the window and immediately pulled out her tablet, burying herself in work. Or pretending to. I couldn’t tell with those sunglasses.

I settled into the seat across from her.

The flight attendant came by to do her pre-flight check. “Can I get either of you anything before we take off?”

“I’m fine,” Juno said without looking up.

“Water, thanks,” I said.

As we taxied down the runway, I watched her. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked at me once. She slid her ear buds in. All that was missing was the neon sign over her head saying, “fuck off.”

This was exactly why you didn’t shit where you ate. Because now I had to sit here for the next five hours, breathing the same recycled air as someone who clearly wanted to be anywhere but near me.

The plane lifted off, and my stomach dropped. Not from the altitude change. From the crushing realization that I’d probably just destroyed the best business opportunity I’d ever had.

I pulled out my own phone and tried to focus on emails. Toby had sent me the rough cut of some content from yesterday. I watched it with the sound off, not really seeing it.

All I could think about was that kiss.

An hour into the flight, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Juno.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t even flinch.

“Juno, come on. We need to talk about this.”

Finally, she looked up. Those sunglasses were still on, but I could feel her glare through them.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the frustration.

We landed at Van Nuys just after six. I’d debated jumping out somewhere over Utah. Zero words were spoken. I had never endured such a shitty flight. Flying private was all about comfort. That had been the furthest thing from comfortable.

Juno was up and grabbing her bags the second the seatbelt sign turned off. She didn’t wait for me, just headed straight for the exit.

I followed her down the stairs to the tarmac where two cars were waiting. I’d arranged for separate drivers. At least I’d gotten that right.

“That one is for you,” I said, pointing at the black car on the left.

She lifted her sunglasses and looked at me—finally.

“Perfect,” she said and put them right back on.

I watched her climb into her car and disappear down the road.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running my hand through my hair.

My driver cleared his throat politely. “Ready, sir?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The drive back to Santa Monica passed in a blur. I stared out the window and decided I would go for a run. The frustration threatened to choke me if I didn’t do something.

By the time we pulled up to my house, it was getting close to nightfall. The driver helped me with my bags, and I tipped him before trudging up the front steps. Then I took my bags to my bedroom and changed into shorts and tennis shoes.

I stretched and jogged down the stairs to the beach. And then I ran. No phone. No music. Just me, the waves, and the sand.