by Monica James
Something about her stirs something in me I thought was long dead. But the reason I’m on this plane headed for hell in the first place has me quashing down the urge to ask for her number. She’s had her fair share of arseholes; I don’t need to add to the shite pile.
I will have to commit her to memory and hope that once this plane lands, that’ll be enough inspiration to finish this damn book. Just looking at her has me itching to pull out my laptop.
As the winter-kissed landscape comes into view, a bout of reality kicks me in the nuts. I can’t believe I agreed to this. I must have been high. There is no way I can pull this off. I may as well say goodbye to my career now.
“Are you okay?” Carrie whispers into my ear.
The harmless question has me jolting in my seat because her closeness has the sleepy lion within me raising its very interested head. Nothing good can come from this. “I’m fine.” I man up and grow a pair. I don’t elaborate and simply stare out the window, wishing that the pilot would turn rogue and change the flight path.
Lost in visions of sunbaking on sandy white beaches in Australia, I don’t realize we’ve hit turbulence until my fingers begin to lose circulation. Peering down, I see Carrie clutching at my hand, and her eyes are squeezed shut. She’s breathing steadily as one on the brink of a nervous breakdown would.
“Carrie?”
She shakes her head, sealing her lips shut as if she’s afraid to speak.
“I would ask if everything is all right, but the fact I’m losing feeling in one hand confirms you’re not.”
A strangled chuckle escapes her, and she loosens her hold—only just. “Sorry,” she pants. “I’m not a good flyer especially when there is…” She doesn’t finish her sentence because the pocket of air we hit does it for her. She yelps and buries her face into my arm, clenching both her hands around mine.
“It’s just a little turbulence. It’ll pass.” I hesitate for a mere second, then wrap an arm around her slender shoulders, attempting to console her. The moment we make contact, she shivers, and a small whimper slips past her lips. The sound is merely innocent, but it arouses a craving deep within.
A need to protect her overcomes me, and I surprise myself at this very uncharacteristic trait. Liz was never a damsel in distress, a quality I once liked about her. But now I see I mistook her cold-heartedness for independence.
“Thanks for being so kind. It’s nice to know that not all men are lying, cheating assholes.” I wish I lived up to her impression of me because little does she know about the true Jayden Evans.
For the rest of the bumpy journey, I keep my arm wrapped around her while she holds my hand. When her grip loosens, I expect her to release me, but she doesn’t. This simple act of handholding may seem juvenile, but I would trade every woman’s body I’ve lost myself in for this single moment. I suppose I’m an old, soppy romantic at heart, and I’ve lost that thanks to Liz. It’s no wonder I haven’t been able to write.
“Thank you.”
Shaking my head, I peer over at Carrie, thankful the color has returned to her cheeks. It’s only then that I realize we’ve landed. “Oh, sorry.” I quickly unhook my arm from around her, not wanting her to think I’m trying to get fresh.
There is a sudden charge to the air. I know what it is, and so does she. Now that the crisis has been averted, memories of her lithe body pressed up against mine have me gripping both thighs to stop from reaching out and touching her.
Her lips part, then she wets her bottom lip quickly. The harmless motion has me leaving dents in my upper legs.
She shoots upward, banging her head on the ceiling. It appears we’re both affected by whatever this is. “Thank you,” she repeats, rubbing the top of her head with a smile. “I’m sorry I invaded your personal space.”
“You can invade my space anytime you want.” It’s out before I can stop myself, and it sounded even seedier aloud than it did in my head.
What’s going on? I’ve had no issues flirting in the past, but now I feel like an utter twat, and I need to rectify the situation immediately. Thinking on my toes, I reach into my bag and pull out a copy of my book. Not wanting to encroach on her no boys rule, I can’t allow her to leave this airport without knowing I’m within reach if she wants to find me.
Passing her my novel, she accepts, but her confusion shows. “You asked if I was a writer. Well…” I leave the sentence hanging, not needing to fill in the blanks.
She turns the book over, perusing the blurb, before turning it back over again. I cockily wait for the usual gushes about how awesome it is to be in the company of an author, but none of that occurs. If anything, she seems repulsed by my offering.
“That’s my book,” I clarify, just in case she thinks I’m a librarian.
“I figured,” she replies, reaching for her bag under the seat in front of her and placing it inside.
“I wrote it,” I reiterate. Are we lost in translation? But we’re not.
“You must be proud.” The air drops about five hundred degrees.
“I can sign it if you want?” Even I cringe at how conceited that sounded. She shifts her gaze awkwardly to look anywhere but at me.
I have no idea what went wrong, but that was a major kick to the balls. With most women, that line would have sealed the deal, but I should have known that Carrie wasn’t like most women.
Just as I’m about to apologize for being a pompous arse, she pulls a camera out from her bag and snaps a picture. The flash blinds me, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Blinking quickly, I’m thankful when I see she’s no longer scowling.
“Something to remember you by.” The book was meant to convey that token, but she obviously has something against paperbacks. Maybe she’s an e-book girl.
It’s more than obvious she’s not interested in exchanging numbers. I knew this from the start. So why am I suddenly so disappointed?
“Well, I hope you took my good side,” I tease, reaching down to snare my bag.
“I’m pretty sure that’s all you have.” She’s quick to quip, but when I lift my eyes, surprised by her comment, she blushes a sweet pink.
In a roundabout way, she’s just confessed she finds me somewhat attractive. My inner Casanova primps his collar and struts his shite. I need to think of something witty, something funny to say, but all I’m standing with is my mouth hanging open like a useless muppet.
“Well…”
“Well…” I repeat, my lingual skills apparently nonexistent.
I’ve never had to put so much effort into talking because I’ve never really met anyone who didn’t know who I was. Being in the limelight has turned me into a lazy conversationalist. I’m so used to talking about writing, or when I’m not writing, talking about what I’m reading, that normal, everyday discussions have left me with a mouth full of air.
My conversations with Liz were based around work and money, and anything in between were skimmed over, deemed unimportant to people like “us.” When did I turn into such a conversational snob?
As the crowd on the plane begins to thin out, I know it’s now or never. “Not wanting to disturb your resolution, but I thought maybe once the new year starts, we could grab…” I never get to finish my sentence, however, because Carrie places her pointer finger to my lips.
“Don’t spoil it.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” I say from around her finger.
She arches a brow. “I can guess.” No isn’t a word I hear too often, so I’ve forgotten the sting associated with it.
It appears Carrie is full of surprises, and I’m apparently a masochist because I keep coming back for more. “Just in case you change your mind…”
“I won’t,” she replies matter-of-factly as she lowers her finger.
I’ve obviously done something to piss her off, but what? I was her knight in shining armor minutes ago, but now it appears she wishes I’d left her stranded in the tower.
“It was nice meeting you. Me
rry Christmas.” I haven’t been that long out of the game to know a brush-off when I see one. Again, it’s not a concept I’m too familiar with, and I don’t plan on becoming too acquainted with the notion.
When she makes it clear she wants to push past me and escape this sudden suffocating space, I could stand my ground and turn on the charm. It’s worked in the past, but from my earlier experience, I know it’ll just tick her off further.
With ego in hand, I step out into the aisle, gesturing for her to go first. No matter if she suddenly thinks I’m a leper with two heads, I remember my manners. My mom would have my hide otherwise. The moment she steps past me, someone in front of her tosses his backpack over his shoulder, resulting in her losing her balance as it whacks her in the face.
My arms shoot out to steady her, but the moment we make contact, she pulls out of my grip. Raising my hands in surrender, I assert, “Whoa, love, I’m not going to bite.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t want to catch whatever diseases you have,” she snaps.
Before I get a chance to ask what the hell crawled up her arse and died, she storms down the almost clear aisle. I could follow, demanding to know what I said or did to provoke this state of craziness, but I don’t. This just confirms my earlier affirmation that I’m to steer clear of feelings. It’s probably best if I added the opposite sex to the list too.
Shouldering my laptop bag, I shake my head, wondering at what precise moment this entire thing went cock-up. Women are a strange species, and I don’t pretend to understand them. As I amble down the aisle, I can’t help but feel a little rejected and a lot like the hunchback of Notre Dame.
The air hostess gives me a flirty smile as she bids me happy holidays, which strokes me a tad, but it isn’t her attention I want.
Seeing Daisy doesn’t seem quite so bad now. After Carrie left me standing alone, knob in hand, my bruised ego could use a little fawning over. Pathetic but true.
As I step off the plane and walk down the passageway, I straighten out my shirt and run a hand through my mussed hair. As I peer up ahead and see a hoard of people with cameras surrounding the exit, I remind myself why I’m doing this. I don’t fancy being elbow deep in chicken grease as I work for minimum wage.
“There he is!”
The flash of cameras and the roar of the excited press somewhat comfort me. It’s like coming home—coming home to the land of the crazy, but coming home nonetheless.
“Mr. Sparrow, what are your plans for the holidays?”
“Are you spending it with someone special?”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Shielding my eyes, I make a quick beeline to collect my bags but am stopped in my tracks when a nosy reporter asks, “Just who is Daisy Bell? We hear you two are getting married?”
“Have you set a date?”
“How do you know about Daisy?” I bark. I know better than to allow them to bait me, but I don’t want this leaked to the media. That’s the last thing I need.
The reporter seems like all her Christmases have come at once as she shoves the tape recorder in my face. “Do you confirm you’re engaged to her?”
“What? No,” I reply, unable to hide my repulsion. “How did you…?”
I don’t need to continue because all my questions are answered at once. “Pookie bear!”
Before I have a chance to curse whatever god is laughing at my expense, Daisy Bell propels forward and launches herself into my arms like we’re in some sodding romance flick. The press have a field day, their cameras capturing every uncomfortable moment.
With no other choice, I embrace her, wishing I could squeeze a little harder. “You tipped them off.” It’s a question intersected with a statement because I know that she did. This is so typical of her—always wanting to shine in the spotlight.
“Hello to you too. Is that any way to thank me?” she whispers, kissing my cheek for dramatic flair. There’s no point in arguing.
After we’re done hugging like long-lost lovers, she lets me up for air. She poses for the cameras, flicking her long brown hair over her shoulder and pouting her glossy lips. With soft wavy curls, chocolate brown eyes, and a fit body with all the right curves, there’s no denying she’s every man’s dream girl.
But I was surrounded by this for years, and I’ve grown tired of it. I want a change.
Linking her arm through mine, she snuggles into my side. “I missed you, pookie bear.”
“Please stop referring to me like I’m a prop from Sesame Street,” I berate through clenched teeth, trying my best to smile. She giggles, oblivious to the fact that I’m deadly serious.
When she’s done posing for the press, she leads the way toward baggage claim. A few photographers follow, snapping last-minute photos, hoping for the money shot. “How was your flight?” she asks, her heels clacking against the floor.
“Long.” I don’t see the need to elaborate.
“Oh, poor baby. I’ll give you a massage if you’re lucky.” She accentuates her promise with a wink.
Bags fill the carousel as impatient holidaymakers eager for their vacation to begin wait. I scan the area, wondering if Carrie is one of those people. Her abrupt exit has left me curious as to what went wrong. For a moment there, I thought we connected, but I was obviously mistaken. Not that I can blame her. She did catch me post copulation, and then I acted like a fucking idiot by offering to sign her book.
Whiskey is needed to erase the past six hours or, better yet, the past six months.
“What color is your bag?”
“Black.”
This shortness between us is so atypical of our conversations. I thought she’d tire of it, but the less I speak, the more she talks. “I can’t wait for you to meet the family. I know you’ve met Daddy, but my mom is dying to meet you. It’s going to be so much fun. I can’t wait for you to unwrap your Christmas present. If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll give it to you early.” Her voice turns husky as she reaches down and fondles my balls, uncaring that we’re in a very public place.
I grip her wrist and push her away from my family jewels. I want her nowhere near my junk. “My dear, you’re embarrassing me.” She giggles, keeping her hands to herself—for now.
Fortunately, my bag emerges, and I step forward, thankful for the breather. I’ve been in her company for roughly five minutes, and I already want to kill myself.
“The driver is waiting outside,” she declares, leading the way. I follow, slipping my Ray-Bans on as I’ve had enough of the cameras.
Wearing sunglasses indoors in the middle of winter makes me look like a total wanker, but I’ve already crossed that line by being here. I drag my bag behind me, half listening to Daisy detailing the Bell family traditions.
I have no doubt I’ll be a raging alcoholic by the end of the week. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell, needing some moral support. Nick replies on the third ring.
“I thought you’d be balls deep in Daisy by now.”
“You have problems, mate.” I chuckle, his crudeness never ceasing to amaze me. “I need you,” I whisper, lagging behind. Daisy doesn’t even notice my retreat.
“I’m flattered, but I don’t swing that way. If I did, however, I’d be all up in your man parts.”
“I can’t believe you went to Yale.” I shake my head, amused. “You need to get your arse on a plane and come save me. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“I talked you into screwing Sweet Cheeks on her daddy’s desk?” he rebukes. I hear him open a beer bottle. Lucky bastard.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, not needing the visual reminder. “I was drunk and shouldn’t be held accountable for my actions. You know I have a weakness for girls in red.”
“And yellow and pink and green,” he singsongs, unsympathetic to my cause.
“You are the worst literary agent ever, not to mention best friend.”
“C’mon, old chap,” he says in his staged British accent. “I could think of a dozen worse ways to
spend my Christmas. You’re vacationing at a million-dollar secluded property along the shoreline with a woman who would do anything, anything you ask, and you want me to feel sorry for you? Did you misplace your balls on the plane ride over?”
“Goodbye, Nick. I stand by my earlier affirmation.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he shouts, needing to get in the last word before I end the call.
“That doesn’t leave me with many options,” I mock, before hanging up. That was a waste of time. I should have known he’d enjoy my pain.
Once we step outside, the cool breeze is a welcomed reprieve, and I take a moment to absorb my surroundings. I wish I was here under different circumstances as Connecticut is one of my favorite states.
The driver tips his hat when Daisy saunters over to the door he’s holding open for her. The fact we have a limousine picking us up instead of a taxi displays the type of treatment Daisy is accustomed to. I’ve always been thankful for having such luxuries at my disposal, but now, I wonder if I was always such a pretentious jerk.
“Mr. Sparrow.”
“Hello.”
I stop, bracing my hand on the doorframe as Daisy pats the empty seat beside her. I almost ask the driver if we can switch places but suck it up and hop in. The door shuts, sealing my fate. There’s no turning back now.
This limo is one of the nicest I’ve been in. There’s ample room, and no expense is spared. The black leather seats and top shelf whiskey give me insight on what’s headed my way. Our chic surroundings don’t seem to make a difference to Daisy because the moment the car pulls into traffic, she rockets onto my lap, making her intentions clear when she wiggles her arse.
“Hi,” she huskily purrs, interlocking her hands around my nape.
“Hi.” I humor her.
“Did you miss me?” She pouts like a sulky child.
Reminding myself why I’m doing this, I nod. “Sure.”
“Good ’cause I missed you too.”
I pull backward when she encroaches on my personal space. Her target is my lips, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow her anywhere near them. “Daisy, we agreed to take things slow. I’ve told you numerous times we’re not together. Or exclusive.” Or however they are phrasing it these days.
