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Thomas eyes me as my shoulders hunch under the blanket draped over me, trying to subtly lift my shirt away from my chest. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ I really wish he hadn’t insisted on giving me the aisle seat. Just as with the tux jacket earlier, he continues to confuse me by vacillating between asshole and gentleman. And besides confusing, his gentleman tendencies tend to make things more awkward than necessary. Because if I could turn toward the window, this would be a lot easier.
Actually, if the stupid drink cart wasn’t in the way, I could go to the bathroom and take care of it myself.
‘Tell me.’
Not looking at him, like a child who doesn’t think others can see them if they can’t see others, I slide my hand under my shirt. ‘It’s nothing, really.’ And maybe he would’ve believed my lie if I didn’t follow it with a sharp intake of breath from trying to peel the adhesive off my nipple.
Through the tears welling in my eyes, I see Thomas lift a hand toward the call button overhead.
‘No!’ I jerk my arm out and grab for his arm, but the sudden movement only makes the chafing worse and I let out a rare curse.
His good eye narrows to the size of his injured one. ‘Tell me.’ His tone as harsh as it sounded when he told me to go pack for the flight.
I glare at the seat back in front of me, hating that one of our last memories as husband and wife, no matter how unwanted, will be with this 100-percent-kill-me-now embarrassing situation I’ve gotten myself into. I close my eyes against the overhead fluorescent lights. ‘It’s the pasties,’ I whisper through the side of my mouth.
‘Pasties?’ He doesn’t bother to lower his voice.
‘Shhh!’ My eyes fly open, darting to the older woman across the aisle reading. Her hand pauses in turning the page of her novel.
Sighing, I lean closer to Thomas and continue my futile attempt at keeping my booby pain on the downlow. ‘I was in a rush when I changed out of the dress and I didn’t take them off. But now they hurt and I don’t know what to do.’
You could light a match on my face right now.
‘Come.’ And just like at the wedding, he grabs hold of my elbow under the blanket and lifts me to my feet, ushering me down the aisle.
The stewardess manning the drink cart opens her mouth, probably to ask us to return to our seats until drink service is over, but I look over my shoulder in time to see Thomas give her one of his well-known hoity-toity looks and her mouth snaps shut. It’s one of the looks I judge him for but now makes me want to hug him when, following his expression with ‘She’s ill.’
He’s not wrong. Between the alcohol last night, the nerves during the wedding, the rush to get to the airport, and the pasties, my queasiness is at new heights.
Literally.
Between my expression and Thomas’s, the stewardess nods and rushes to unlock the cart brakes.
A second later and our path to the bathroom is clear.
Thomas hustles me to the bathroom’s narrow accordion door and pushes me inside.
Then follows me in.
‘Wait. What are you—’
‘Let me see.’ Turning me in place so I face him, he gives me the look.
Not as troubled by his glare as I was before Vegas, or as appreciative as I was seconds ago when he gave that look to the flight attendant, I hesitate to comply.
I’m very sober right now. And sober Alice knows with complete clarity that showing your nipples to your boss is a no-no. But then, so is getting married to him.
The war in me has me hesitating long enough that his expression changes. However, much to my surprise, it doesn’t harden, it softens.
As does his voice. ‘Let me help.’
Though his plea makes me feel more at ease, what really helps me comply is the cramped space. First class bathroom or not, it’s still smaller than a New York City apartment closet in here. There’s not an inch to spare between us, and with our height distance making my chest level with his stomach, I’m thinking he won’t see much anyway.
Something Thomas discovers and rectifies when, while I have the hem of my shirt raised slightly over my breasts, his hands encircle my waist and lifts me up until my slippered feet rest on the closed toilet lid.
Surprised at the sudden move, I freeze, hands still holding up my shirt, pasties now bared under the harsh fluorescents no more than an inch from his face. The only thing more shocking to me than my current circumstance is that I haven’t melted into a puddle from embarrassment.
