Copyright © 2020 by Jenny Bunting
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Editing: Jenn Lockwood Editing
Proofreading: Horus Proofreading
Cover Design: Kari March Designs
Books by Jenny Bunting
Here in Lillyvale
Here (Zoey and Jonathan)
Hustle (Taylor and Malcolm)
Home (Addison and Kirk)
Hubby (Makenna and Dan)
* * *
Stuck in Love
Please Be Seated (Erin and Landon)
In Case of Emergency (Cassie and Smith)
For Your Safety (Raegan and Henry)
For every person who ever let me out so I could go to the bathroom on a flight.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
1
I will need at least two Bloody Marys.
No, make it three.
After meeting after meeting in a windowless boardroom in Manhattan, my body needs something, anything, to relax my residual stress. This airplane seat does nothing for the cause. I feel constricted, uncomfortable, and downright grouchy. The meeting ran late, resulting in me sprinting through the terminal at JFK like I was on Supermarket Sweep with no time to change into comfortable plane clothes. So, now I’m sitting here, wearing my stiff boardroom pantsuit, my curls have flattened to a breath of a wave, and my makeup has rubbed off in chunks.
I look at my carry-on purse longingly. It holds my favorite leggings and a baggy white T-shirt. My friend and roommate, Cassie, makes fun of me constantly for the baggy-shirt-and-leggings look—ever since it became my off-work uniform four months ago. It’s comfortable, even if it hangs off of me now since I completely lost my appetite and am barely regaining the weight I lost. It looks sloppy, but in a chic way.
The guy to my left plasters himself against the plane wall while I scrunch into the middle seat. The aisle seat is empty, and I pray silently it stays that way. It’s mine if no one occupies it. I fantasize about freely using the restroom, stretching my legs, and maybe changing in the airplane bathroom. The flight is semi-full—a red-eye from New York to San Francisco—and blissfully quiet. I hear faint rap music from my rowmate’s headphones, but other than that, I can work with this. I may even be able to sleep.
Who am I kidding? I don’t sleep on planes.
I just wonder when the drink cart service starts. I have five hours and several drink coupons for Skyline Airlines saved up for an emergency like this. I might pass out from too much alcohol accidentally—which is the best-case scenario.
It’s better than being alone with my thoughts.
I pull out my phone to shoot off a text prior to forced airplane mode.
Me: About to take off. Pick me up at 1 am. Love you.
Cassie: You’re lucky I love you. You are the only person I stay up that late for. Anyone else can take a Lyft.
Me: At least I’m not flying into Oakland.
Cassie: True.
I turn my phone to airplane mode and tuck it back into my carry-on.
Although she makes fun of my wardrobe, I do not deserve Cassie. She was there when everything went down with Patrick, and she let me move in to her four hundred square foot studio in the city when I moved out of his apartment in Berkeley. I snuck out today to buy her her favorite cupcakes from a New York exclusive bakery as a first of many thank-yous.
I bought myself two and thought I would eat them. Instead, they got added to Cassie’s stash.
The aisle has emptied, and I rub my palms together. The aisle seat is mine. I unbuckle my seatbelt to move, since it appears safe, just as a man rushes onto the plane like he is going to propose to some unsuspecting girl.
That only happens in movies pre-9/11, but still, one can hope.
I need to believe in love again—even if it happens to someone else.
The flight attendant approaches him, and he flashes his phone. He is all smiles as he waves to other passengers, thanking them for their patience. The flight attendant leads him back, dangerously close to me and my rap-listening rowmate. I cringe as she stops at our row and presents the seat to him like it’s an entrée at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Fuck.
“Hi,” he says to me. I respond with a closed-mouth smile. He opens the already-closed overhead bin to shove his small carry-on in. The flight attendant assists him as well. The vitriol pouring out of the other passengers is potent as this carefree dude rearranges their items so his can fit last minute.
He sits down, bouncing with the force.
“I’m Landon,” he says, holding out his hand. With great hesitation, I take it and shake. His hand is smooth, and his handshake is firm. He is wearing a comfortable plaid shirt over a gray T-shirt and jeans.
I am so jealous.
“I’m so glad I made it! Getting here was a nightmare. I don’t have great time management, so this isn’t the first airplane I’ve almost missed.”
He smiles widely, his mouth full of impeccably white and straight teeth. He stares at me, and my head jerks. Why is he still looking at me?
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Oh, Erin,” I say. “Erin Campbell.”
“Oh, we’re doing last names, too. Mine is Walcott. Landon Walcott.” He smiles again, his teeth practically sparkling.
I scrunch myself further into my seat. Of course I am stuck next to the chatty guy on the plane.
I lean my head back. The drink cart cannot come soon enough.
I close my eyes, but my rowmate asks, “Why were you in New York?”
I open my eyes, and Landon is right there, smiling wide enough to show gums.
“My company is interested in acquiring another company, and I was there to grease the wheels.”
“Oh, like in Succession? I love that show. Do you watch that show?”
“Yes, but…” I begin.
“I binged it a few weeks ago,” Landon interrupts me. “Everyone is awful. I am obsessed, though. My roommate, Henry, and I binged that in a week and a half. Nonstop.”
More smiles. He needs to pace himself, or his cheeks will be sore.
“I’m trying to get a promotion, so I volunteered,” I offer. Rarely do I keep conversations going with strangers, but the longer I look at him, the cuter he becomes.
“I bet you’re great at your job.”
“I’m okay.” He holds eye contact with me, and I squirm. Am I supposed to ask what he was doing in New York? Fine, I’ll bite.
“What were you doing in New York?” I ask.
“Well, I had my own meeting,” he says, straightening an imaginary tie. As I examine him closer, he is definitely good-looking. Bright-green eyes, a scruffy square jaw, and a lanky build. His sandy-blond hair screams I have no problems, ever.
“What do you do?” I bite again.
“I created a dating app. Well, my friend and I created a dating app. We thought of it when we were watching Love is Blind while we were high, and Henry is a coder, so�
��”
“I love that show,” I say, snapping my fingers. I binged that entire season in two days after Patrick and I ended our engagement. I cried during every episode.
“So, we created an app. Kindred. Have you heard of it?”
I nod. Practically all of my single friends are on it. I even created a profile for myself, but I haven’t made it public yet. Kindred’s premise is you choose matches based off of written profiles before you see pictures. I understand the thought behind it, but some of my friends have been ghosted the second pictures were exchanged.
“Anyway, someone wants to buy it. Henry gets really anxious, so I went. I am the more extroverted of the two of us,” Landon says. He gives two thumbs up. Usually, I would find this nauseating. On Landon, it’s downright endearing.
“Did you get an offer?” I ask. I don’t know if I care or not; it’s just nice talking to someone so upbeat.
“Yeah, but I don’t know. It’s our baby. I’m so proud of it. This app is special. My other apps are special, too, but…”
“You’ve created other apps?”
Landon nods confidently. “App creation is my passion.”
I nod. My job is not a passion. Being part of a large corporation buying out smaller corporations is not noble work. I am above-average at my job; hence, why I get sent across the country instead of solely being a cubicle jockey. A promotion is being dangled in front of me. I’m not sure if I want it because I actually want it or because it’s the next benchmark.
“You look uncomfortable,” Landon says.
“I am,” I reply. “I was late and didn’t have a chance to change prior to boarding. If I would’ve known you were going to hold up the plane…”
“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his hands.
Oh good, he can take a joke.
“Well, as soon as the Fasten Your Seatbelt sign is off, I will block all other passengers for you so you can change in that tiny bathroom. Awkwardly.” He nudges me, and it feels like we’re pals, even though we just met five minutes ago.
“As a thank you, I have all these Skyline drink coupons,” I say, pulling out an accordion of gray and white vouchers. “You can help me drink watered-down alcohol.”
“Excellent,” Landon says, rubbing his hands together. “It is so fun to get drunk on planes.”
“Exactly,” I say with a smile. Wow, I’m smiling. Besides a smile in reaction to a cute dog story, it has been a while since I smiled at anything. Landon’s positive energy is infectious, like a virus of joy. It makes me forget my crummy life for a second.
A flight attendant stations herself in the middle of the plane with an incomplete seatbelt. Landon and I watch the presentation, and Landon mimics the flight attendant, complete with hand gestures.
“I will put on your mask first,” Landon says. “And then my mask.”
“Not if I put yours on first,” I joke. Landon’s grin brightens, and I check myself. Am I grinning, too? I touch my cheeks, and I definitely am.
The plane starts moving, taxiing. I can see the guiding lights in the dark as our plane gets in line to take off.
“I may be thirty-one years old,” Landon says. “But I still get nervous taking off.”
I did not guess thirty-one. He bounces in his seat like a golden retriever puppy, all smiles and wags. I guess never having anything go wrong in your life keeps you youthful.
It could explain why I only see hag when I look in the mirror.
“Will you hold my hand?” Landon asks. “I get very, very, very scared.”
He places his hand on the armrest, and I look down.
Why the hell not.
I connect my hand with his. My hand in a stranger’s hand looks foreign…but comforting. He smiles, and I smile again.
The plane speeds down the runway, and Landon mouths “Woah” to me, his mouth a long O. Usually, I ignore the turbulence and settle into boredom on an airplane. Sometimes, I try to work—I never sleep—or I’ll read the SkyMall magazine.
Holding the hand of a stranger who becomes more handsome by the smile is a delightful new development.
Once the plane reaches altitude, Landon disconnects hands and reaches for the pouch paper materials. Landon opens the drink menu dramatically. “It looks like cocktails or tiny bottles of wine are our options.”
“It’s hard to screw up a gin and tonic. Or a vodka and tonic. I’m craving a Bloody Mary myself.”
“Bloody Marys are delicious. Should I chance the Island Margarita? To celebrate that Skyline now travels to Oahu?”
“It’s probably orange juice and tequila.”
“Ew, you’re probably right,” Landon says. He turns to me with soft eyes. “I wasn’t kidding. The minute that sign comes on, I will block anyone who tries to dash for the toilet before you.”
“Thank you. I can be patient if someone is a nervous-bowel-movement person.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” Landon says.
It’s nice to have someone to talk to, even for a little while. When I had Patrick, I ignored my compounding hatred for my job and mind-numbing rut of a routine. Now, I feel lost and unsure what to do. A reprieve from my thoughts, like Landon, is always welcome. This kind, good-looking man is a godsent distraction to my monotony. There is no way this will result in anything substantial or anything more than a light flirtation.
“What is that?” Landon asks, sniffing his nostrils.
I perk up, sniffing in the aroma as well. I definitely smell it. I cover my mouth and my nose to keep the putrid odor out.
“What is that?” I ask.
2
The smell grows stronger, and I cough in response. Other passengers’ heads pop up like meerkats, investigating the odor as well. I stretch my body to look in other rows; I look to my right, but it’s not that row. Everyone is asleep.
Landon grabs my forearm, and I feel warm all throughout, even if my nose is on fire.
“I will get to the bottom of this smell—when the seatbelt sign goes off.” Landon points to the ceiling, and the seatbelt sign glows in its tyranny.
“Oh my God,” a woman screeches, and I see the culprit.
A pair of hairy feet with yellow talons for toenails rest casually on an armrest. I see the smelly asshole’s head who lounges without shame. I point around Landon, and he gasps.
“Someone has to tell him his feet are nasty,” I say.
“Maybe he knows, and he doesn’t care. My Uncle Harry is like that. Wait, is that my Uncle Harry?” Landon lifts slightly from his seat. “No, it’s not him. Too much hair on the head.”
“Do you think anyone is going to say anything?” I ask. I peer around the row, and now the toes are spread apart like fingers. Gross. There is whispering but no blatant signs of response.
“I doubt it. Though, you never know.”
The smell loses its aggressive rottenness, and I can breathe without my eyes watering. The whispering dies down, and he finally takes his feet off the armrest. Now, I’m just excited to tell everyone about this shoeless guy, even if the ordeal lasted two seconds.
I also cannot wait to tell everyone about this really cute guy who made a ho-hum flight great.
A ding sounds from overhead, and we look up to see the seatbelt light is off.
“It’s your moment to shine!” Landon says as he barrels out of the aisle and stands up, almost falling into an older woman asleep with her mouth open.
I grab my carry-on and brush past Landon. The quick swish of our clothes sends goosebumps up my arms. We share a smile, inches from each other’s face, and he pats my upper back with his palm. More goosebumps.
“He’s also eating a full bag of pork rinds,” Landon whispers. The shoeless, unapologetic man grabs a fistful of the snack and crunches loudly. From the back, I see his rowmate squirm. I feel bad for her.
I charge the rear of the plane.
I half-smile at the flight attendant, still strapped in the jump seat, scrolling on her phone. The bathroom door stic
ks, and I brace my weight to push the door open. I have zero upper body strength so this is about to get comical, real fast. It finally opens with a thwack, I don’t fall in, and relief washes over me. I’m so close to being comfortable I could cry. I also want to get back to my seat. To Landon.
I set my bag down on the toilet and immediately strip out of my jacket and pull my stiff blouse over my head.
Visions of Landon slowly undressing me come out of nowhere.
I’ve known Landon for thirty minutes, and I’m already having sexual fantasies about him. Great.
It has been a while since I’ve had sex. As the wedding with Patrick loomed, we slept together less and less. He did not reach for me, and I fell asleep in an exhausted heap every night. I thought not sleeping together for a month prior to our wedding was normal; we would rip each other’s clothes off once the stress of the wedding was over. Patrick calling it off definitely affirmed that, no, we had a problem.
Somehow, we lost each other.
Landon is not a good fixation for my sexual fantasies. First off, we’re on a plane. Joining the Mile High Club does not appeal to me, and I would never attempt it. With my luck, I would get stuck in the bathroom or fall out, buck naked. Second, I barely know him. I’ve only had sex with men I’ve dated, and who knows if Landon and I will see each other past this plane ride. Seeing someone’s bare feet always leads to bonding, but I don’t think enough to bump uglies.
I avoid the mirror as I stuff the suit in crumples and pull on my favorite leggings that feel like butter on my legs and my trusty black flats. I breathe out a sigh of relief. My hair is doing nothing for me, so I collect half of it into a bun on my head and find some blessed makeup wipes. As I remove the layers of professional makeup, my skin breathes, and I feel better. I check my appearance once last time. Maybe I’m checking it so I look good for Landon. Even if there’s no chance for sex or romance in the immediate future, I still want to feel nice and pretty.
Please Be Seated Page 1
