Stalemate.
Beside him Elle gripped her seat rests tighter. Looked like he wasn't the only one who needed a distraction.
"Let me guess," he said, softening his words with a deliberate drawl. "You're doing the tourist thing in Asheville. Visiting Biltmore. Staying at the Bohemian."
She stiffened.
Tourist for sure, he thought.
Elle tilted her chin, somehow looking down her nose at him even though the top of her head only reached his shoulder.
He'd seen that look. He remembered the debutante types giving him that same haughty tilt of the chin. It rankled then, and it amused him now. Plus it was kind of hot.
"Look," she said. "I appreciate you being polite, but if you wouldn't mind, I would like some peace and quiet."
A spray of freckles spanned the tops of her cheeks and nose. He liked that they didn't fit with her cautious makeup and tidy hair. He quirked up one side of his mouth into a smile.
"Just trying to be cordial, ma'am," he said.
The thing was, he hated small talk. Loathed it. Especially on planes, or anyplace, really. If his siblings heard him just now, they'd give him hell. But something about Elle made him want to break through her prim and proper exterior. See what kind of woman hid beneath all the ice.
The thought made him smirk.
Before he could think better of it, he said, "Your boyfriend is an idiot." In his opinion, she was a bit of an idiot too, for dating the guy, but he decided to be nice. Well. Nicer.
"Excuse me?"
Now he had her attention. He shifted in his seat, stretching his legs as much as he could while trying not to bump her with his knee.
Damn planes.
"Your boyfriend," he repeated real slow. "He's an idiot."
She crossed her arms. "It is none of your business. And Carter isn't an idiot."
"Sure," he said.
"No, really." She leaned forward. A strand of her hair slipped out of its coil at the back of her head. It was slicked back so tight he imagined her brains were being squished. Women were weird.
She swiped at the errant strand. "Not that I should care what you think. But he made a mistake. I'm sure he has a great explanation." Her voice rose in pitch. "He's being so sweet. We're on our way to a wedding. He hates weddings, but he knew it was important to me..." she trailed off.
He nodded slowly.
"Let me guess," he said. "Your ex is getting married."
She gave him an unamused look and shook her head.
He waited.
"My sister."
When that didn't get a response, she added, "My younger sister."
She looked at him like that should mean something. Was she talking in code?
Yeah, lady code.
He hazarded a guess. "And the fact that she's younger than you is a problem."
She eyed him like he was the crazy one. "It's not a problem, per say, but it's not ideal. At least in my family. We value tradition."
Justin wanted to gag. He'd called it, that was for sure. She was a world-class snob. From the sound of it, she came from a family of snobs. Likely old southern money. The kind that gave his mom one look when they'd moved to the Valley and wrote her off for being jobless, single, and the mother of four kids. Oh yeah. Her type was his favorite kind of people.
"Let me see if I got this straight," he said.
“This should be good,” she said, pulling a bottle of water from her pocketbook. “Please, share your thoughts."
He rubbed his neck with one hand and tried not to smile.
"So your sister is getting married—“
"Baby sister," she corrected, gesturing with her water bottle. She sloshed a bit over the side with the movement and licked it up.
It was his turn to blink.
The quick flash of her pink tongue put him on edge. Snob or not, there was something about her. Something dangerous.
"You were saying," she said, reminding him why he had no business thinking about her tongue.
Justin cleared his throat.
"Right," he said, trying to remember what they had been talking about. "You needed to look good at this wedding, so you decided to stay with Pretty Boy up there, even though you knew he was bad news."
"Of course not." She capped her water bottle then pressed it to her forehead. "I'm with Carter because ... because ... I mean, we've been together for six months now. It's serious."
He waited.
"My mother picked him out for me."
She snapped her mouth shut like she hadn't meant to admit that part.
Justin chuckled and she flushed.
He noticed she did that a lot.
“Even better,” he said. "So your momma picks you a good southern boy, and he goes and gets into some woman's pants on your flight to your baby sister's wedding."
He was on a roll. With every word, she turned a deeper shade of red. Any minute now, he'd get to see the real deal. He'd bet on it.
"Which is why you're dressed like you're ready for Junior League. But that's not working out too well for you because you're sweating like a pig in summer. Not gonna impress anyone looking like that."
If Justin knew southern women—and he did—then he had a feeling this would get under her skin.
He sat back to watch.
Elle put down her bottle with a thunk. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged, fighting a grin. "Just calling it like I see it." He gestured to her. "Might want to change before we land."
She opened and closed her mouth a few times, then glanced down. He looked down too. The fabric of her shirt clung to her skin where she was sweating. And she was sweating a lot.
"You—you—“ she looked up, spluttering.
"Name's Justin," he said.
"Well, Justin," she ground out his name like she was ringing out a dirty dishrag. "Thank you so much for sharing your opinions on my personal life," she snarled. "Coming from such a gentleman, it truly means something."
“But I'm right. And I distracted you.”
She pursed her lips.
He lost the fight not to grin.
He was rewarded with a scathing glare.
With a sigh, she plucked at her blouse. "I have to change."
"Being right is my favorite."
She scowled at him as she stood. She didn't wait for him to move but squeezed past him. It was awkward as hell. His legs were so long she had to press against him to get by.
Justin didn't mean to check her out while she squeezed past him, inch by inch.
Liar.
No, wait. He couldn't help it. She was right there, and he sent a prayer of thanks to whoever she had been trying to impress with her tight skirt and high shoes.
Once in the aisle, the blonde stood on tiptoe to reach the overhead compartment. The bag had slid back and she swore as she tried to reach it.
Justin wanted to make up for the ogling he'd done, so he unbuckled his safety belt and stood. Manners couldn't be unlearned, and he might not know her momma, but his would give him hell if he sat back when he could have been a gentleman.
"Let me help," he said.
She crossed her arms as he moved into the aisle. "It's stuck," she said.
"I got it.” He made the mistake of glancing down at her as he said it. His eyes glossed over the honey blonde of her hair and slipped down to her chest. She dipped her lashes, and he inhaled, suddenly aware of how close they were standing.
Heat and desire moved through him. He didn’t like this woman, didn’t know her, but being near her made him want to pull her close and see if she tasted like she looked—like peaches and sweet cream.
She caught him staring and narrowed her eyes.
“You sure you have that?" she asked, batting her lashes and acting real sweet. "It's not too heavy for you or anything?"
Peaches and cream, he thought, annoyed with himself. Yeah right. Laced with poison, maybe.
He reached into the overhead compartment and gave the bag a sharp tug. It
caught on the latch, so he tugged again, harder.
Bad idea.
Her luggage exploded. Bits of soft fabric and lace fell like snowflakes over the passengers closest to them.
Then came the books.
Most of the books hit the aisle. Only one hit a passenger.
“Ow!” the guy howled. “Of all the stupid things! What's wrong with you people?" He waved the book around like it was a weapon, using it to emphasize every word. Justin might have been able to take the guy more seriously if the book didn’t have a shirtless man holding a woman in a low-cut dress on the cover.
“Y’all coulda killed someone with this!” the guy yelled.
Everyone turned to look. A few people pointed to the cover and giggled.
Next to him, the blonde flushed.
Justin's shoulders shook with silent laughter.
"You are not helping," Elle snapped. She glared at him before turning to furiously pick up a scrap of cloth that looked like it had been chewed up and spit out.
The flight attendant hurried down the aisle to attend to the irate passenger. Justin overheard her offer the man free drinks. He quieted down after that.
Two rows up an old man with a thick white beard held out a thin strip of lace.
"This yours, young lady?" he asked in a wavering voice.
The blonde snapped it up, turning her fierce look into something sweet for the old man, even though the guy looked way too happy holding her underthings. Justin scowled at the guy. Just in case.
She turned on him in time to catch the scowl, and her smile disappeared.
For Justin, her look was pure ice princess. Pissed off ice princess.
She tugged her bag out of his hands. "Thanks a lot," she said. She tossed in clothing and books, plus a number of things organized into little bags.
He cleared his throat. He'd been looking at those little bits of lace and trying not to imagine what she looked like in them. It wasn't going well.
"Right, yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't mean for that to happen."
She glared at him. Like he did it on purpose. Then turned on her heel and made her way down the aisle toward the bathroom. All that lace and fire. It was a bit much. Justin took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.
Don't even think about it.
Just as Elle reached the bathroom—the other bathroom, thank you very much—the pilot called for everyone to return to their seats for landing. She dashed into the closet-like room and swapped her Caroline-approved outfit for something comfortable—and dry, damn it—touching as little as possible in the process.
Elle scooted back to her seat in denim cut-offs, sandals, and a breezy cotton tank top. She slid down the aisle to put her bag away, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. They'd seen her boyfriend canoodling a stranger and now they'd seen Elle's underwear. She was certain it couldn't get much worse.
The white-bearded old man a few aisles up—the one who'd been touching her underwear like he shouldn't have—looked back and winked at her.
Yes, Elle. It can get worse.
She pretended not to see him.
Justin stood to let her in their aisle. Which also annoyed her because it was so damn courteous and gentlemanly. And did he have to be so tall? And smell so good?
The jerk.
"I am sorry about your bag," he said once they were both seated. "For the record, you have nice underwear."
"You're supposed to pretend you didn't notice my underwear," she said, her tone biting. "It would be the polite thing to do."
He shrugged. "It'd be a lie."
His answer forced a reluctant smile from her. She wasn't sure why, but she liked it. Perhaps because it was the most honest thing she'd heard all day.
"Since I can't talk about your underwear, what's with all the books?"
"I'm a research librarian," she said.
“What kind of research involves romance novels?” he asked.
Okay, yes. She hadn't brought many books from work. Or, any, to be honest. No papers or scientific journals. Nothing that involved medicine or had an Abstract. She loved books and reading, but lately work had been too ... dry. Elle wasn't sure what she wanted, but more and more spending hours at the computer searching for obscure medical journals wasn’t it. She decided this trip would be a vacation in more ways than one, and had left every scrap of paper related to work at home.
She shook her head. "Well, those aren't for work. Just for fun."
He raised his eyebrows at that.
"What? Now you don't think I know how to have fun?"
"How many did you bring?" he asked.
“Thirty,” she said. Then quickly added, “I’ll be gone for two weeks, so really, it’s only two books per day.”
He whistled under his breath. "It's a good thing they all didn't come out of your bag. That old man'd be dead right now. Buried under a stack of books. Death by romance novel."
"There are fantasy novels in there too," she said. "Even a few mysteries. Besides, there's nothing wrong with romance novels."
"Unless they kill innocent old men."
She fought a smile.
"Seeing as you're the one who dropped the books on his head," she said coolly. "It would have been your fault."
He laughed at that.
"So, Elle," he said, rolling her name off his tongue in a way that made her think a little too deeply about what other magic his mouth was made for. "Is that short for something?"
"It is," she admitted.
"Isabelle?"
She shook her head. "I wish," she said.
Justin waited.
She let him wait.
“It can’t be that bad,” he said.
She lifted her chin. “Oh, really? For your information, my name is short for Elway. As in my grandfather, Elway Harrell Dupre.”
He pulled a face that made her laugh. "That's rough. I bet you were picked on as a kid."
She tilted her head. “Why, yes. I was. Bless your heart for mentioning it."
His laugh was a deep, low rumble. Like him, it was free and relaxed. He sat in his seat, legs sprawled partway into the aisle. The strange thought that she wouldn't mind hearing his laugh again rose to the surface.
"So what do you do?" she asked, being polite. But also thinking it would be mighty convenient for her if he were a billionaire who just happened to be dressed like a coal miner.
"I'm a groundskeeper for an inn," he said.
She fought a frown. "A groundskeeper," she said.
He leaned back, seeming at ease. Pleased with himself, even. "I take care of maintenance tasks. You know. Fixing things. Taking care of odd jobs. Really, I'm just a handyman."
He looked as though he'd say more, but stopped.
Elle sat back with a sigh. "Well. How ... nice."
He quirked an eyebrow. "I think so."
The plane banked and swam as they approached the runway, effectively putting their conversation on pause. Which was good, because Elle was fighting disappointment. It was silly. Ridiculous even. Why did she care?
He was a stranger on a plane, and she’d just witnessed her boyfriend screwing another woman. She was in shock. That was it. Surely it was the only reason why she was so captivated with a complete stranger.
They touched down with a thump, and the landing brought her back to reality. Obviously, her relationship with Carter was over.
Now she had to deal with the fallout, telling her family—her mother—that not only did she not have a date for her sister’s wedding, but the engagement hints her mother had been dropping were now an impossibility.
She shuddered at the thought.
If there were any possible way to avoid having that conversation with her mother, she’d take it. No questions asked. But what were her options? Guilt Carter into sticking with her until the wedding? Elle wasn’t sure she could stand to be around him for even a moment more.
It was too bad her seatmate wasn’t someone more … suitable.
She was half-tempted to try to dress him up and pass him off as a gentleman, if for no other reason than to at least have a date for the wedding. It would certainly take her mind off the sorry state of her personal affairs.
And yet … Elle would never do it.
Now that she knew what Justin did for a living, she was positive her ovaries needed to get with the program and quit swooning every time he smiled. Or breathed. Or looked at her with his gold-flecked brown eyes and those damn glasses.
She mentally ticked off the reasons why having any type of thought about Justin was entirely inappropriate. Well, beyond being a handyman, and the whole having a not-quite-ex-boyfriend thing (on her part, not his).
One. The tattoos.
Justin's tattoos were not the kind you could hide beneath a long-sleeved shirt. Black ink outlined a forest of trees on one forearm, the other was covered in designs that started at his wrist and ran up to the bottom of his shirt sleeve. More peeked out from the collar of his shirt at the neck, tempting her to wonder what other designs his clothes were hiding.
Heat rose to her cheeks.
Not helping!
Two. The clothes.
In Elle's opinion, unless you were a trucker, a baseball player, or a little boy, you shouldn't wear a baseball cap. End of story. His clothes were more of the same. The rumpled flannel over a tee shirt and jeans, paired with beat-up work boots screamed blue collar. He looked sloppy and unkept. Entirely unacceptable. Did the man not care how he looked?
Three...
Well, she couldn't think of a third problem. She was certain there was something else, but nothing came to mind.
Justin smiled at her, and a warm quiver tickled her insides.
Wait. Yes, there was problem number three.
Never before had Elle felt such a magnetic pull toward a complete stranger. She didn't know him, yet her body lit up like a firecracker every time he looked at her.
She should stop checking him out, she should, but she couldn't. He was just so big and unruly. She kept sneaking glances at him; his hands resting on his knees, the ink running up his arms, the way he needed to adjust his legs to stay comfortable. His broad shoulders filled the chair and then some, and his legs were long and delectably strong-looking.
Delectably? Elle decided something was seriously wrong with her. She’d been hanging out in the book stacks far too much.
Love At First Ink: A Woodbine Valley Romance (Tate Family Book 1) Page 3
