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I can't believe my luck.
Out of all the possible return flights and all the planes and all the seats, I wind up on the same return trip as her.
I don't think she has seen me, she's several rows ahead and over in the middle, but I’d recognize that bright red hair anywhere. I almost literally have to hold myself back from rushing over and asking her all kinds of questions. Of course, asking her questions would mean that I might have to answer a few of hers, and there's no way I want her to know that she's haunted my dreams for the last three days, or that she’s made me feel something I don’t want to admit to myself, much less anyone else.
Maybe I'm just becoming a big old softy in my ripe old age of thirty-five.
But instead of standing up, walking over and introducing myself like I probably should do, I sit and try to lose myself on my phone. She seems to be doing the same, no doubt passing time until we’re told to turn our phones off.
“Excuse me,” A stranger standing in the aisle says, gently tapping my shoulder. I glance up into her kindly old face as her silvery hair rushes forward to frame her face while she leans down to talk quietly to me. “You're sitting next to my husband.” She gestures to the old man next to me, then shows me her ticket. “So I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to switch seats.”
There's something so gentle and kind about her. She reminds me of my own grandparents before they passed, and I instinctively want to help her. “Of course.” I glance at her ticket, eyeing the seat number and my heart leaps in my chest when I realize what seat she’s offering me.
There's just too much coincidence here. Clearly fate is trying to get involved in my love life, and I'm not sure if I should be happy, upset, or scared.
I get out of my seat, nodding at the old woman with a smile. “Bless you,” she says, taking my arm with a claw-like hand before releasing me to sit next to her husband. I make my way to the spot next to the redhead I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for days now.
I lower into the seat next to her and she glances up from her phone, doing a double take as a smile crosses her lips. A surge of warmth sears through my chest. Her bright, curious eyes are full of mischief and her lips are soft and inviting.
She catches me looking at her mouth and her lips part as I quickly meet her gaze again. The sage green dress she's wearing hugs her curves perfectly and the scent of her perfume, a haunting mix of citrus and vanilla, leaves my mouth watering.
“Hello, stranger,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”
It's all I can do to hold back a chuckle. “Hello,” I say, somehow managing to sound casual, despite the internal short circuiting going on inside me at her proximity. “What are the odds?”
She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, and the sound sends goose bumps down my arms and leaves me wanting, more than ever, to taste her lips.
“I hope you don't mind,” I say, gesturing toward the elderly woman who had asked me to switch seats with her. “She wanted to sit with her husband, and I didn't think you'd mind if I came and sat next to you again.” I search her eyes, hoping against hope that she hasn't been able to get me out of her mind, like I haven't been able to get her out of mine. But her expression isn't giving up any secrets.
“Why would I mind?” she asks, and I’d swear she’s holding her breath as if this whole moment hinges on my response to her question.
But I'm not sure what to say, so I stay quiet, not wanting to say the wrong thing and ruin the moment worse than quiet might.
“I don't mind at all,” she says instead with a playful look. She leans in close as if we’re co-conspirators and lowers her voice to say, “In fact, I was kind of hoping that we would see one another again.”
The muscles in my stomach tighten at her words. “You were?” I ask, trying again to keep things casual even though I feel anything but.
She nods her head, tilting her head back and smiling at me. “I was. You made quite an impression on me last time.” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she continues speaking. “It's not often that I can grab someone in a panic and they don't get all sleazy and try to get my number.”
My heart sinks because I absolutely wanted to try to get her number, and now I'm not sure I can without coming across as sleazy. “Well, there go my plans for this flight,” I say jokingly, and she laughs before leaning in even closer and lowering her voice.
She’s so close I can almost feel her lips on my ear, and a jolt of electricity buzzes through me at her words. “I can't get the thought of you holding me during turbulence out of my head. You didn't try to use that moment against me. You were strong and gentle, kind, calming, and you didn’t try to get anything out of the moment.”
She sounds almost surprised as she says the words, and I’m left wondering what kind of jerks she’s used to being around. How is it possible she doesn't know anyone willing to do the right thing without trying to get something from her?
Then again, I can't imagine it's easy being a beautiful woman in today's world. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that it might actually be impossible for her to find anyone who's willing to do something nice without expecting something in return from her. I know plenty of guys like that, and I generally cut ties with them the moment they show their true colors.
“I don't expect anything in return for doing the right thing.” And it's true. I don't expect anything. While I'd love to get her name and her number, I have no expectations that she’ll even be willing to give them to me. But now, with the nature of our conversation, I'm uncomfortable even asking her for those.
I don't want to be yet another jerk she has to deal with.
She eyes me with an appreciation I don't feel I deserve. “And that's what sets you apart from the other men that I've met.” Her expression shifts into a more thoughtful, soft look as she stares off into space. “I've actually been thinking about you a lot over the last couple of days.”
Her words have my body heating up and I swallow hard. All I can think about now is that plane ride and the turbulence and how she clung to me. I can still feel the way her breath tickled my neck and how her body felt against mine. Maybe I am just like all the other guys she's claiming that I'm different from.
“Well, I'm sorry I ruined your trip.” I know now probably isn't the appropriate time for a joke, but she smiles, her eyes twinkling as she studies my face.
“Oh, trust me, you didn't ruin anything.” The way she says the words with an almost dirty undertone leaves me completely speechless. I have no idea what to say in response, which is strange for me because I'm used to being able to talk my way into or out of any situation or conversation.
