Witt reached over her head to put first one bag, then the other in the overhead. She didn’t move, allowing him to lean against her side, allowing herself the luxury of breathing in the light scent of aftershave, fresh shampoo, and all-American male.
He looked down at her, caught her staring with what must have been some bizarre orgiastic expression on her face. Giving her a knowing quirk of his mouth, he said, “What ya thinking?”
“I was wondering whether you wanted the window seat or the aisle.” The planes configuration was three seats on one side, two on the other, and when booking the flight, she’d chosen the two.
Witt’s smile grew. Bastard knew she hadn’t been thinking about seating assignments. He played along anyway. “Aisle. Don’t wanna have to crawl over you when I gotta take a leak.” He leaned down and said softly, “Rather have you crawling over me.”
Ooh-la-la. She would, too. Then she remembered Cameron and the dream, elbowed Witt and moved to the window. The only thing she could be thankful for was that Witt had forgotten about that number. All right, Witt never forgot anything, unlike like herself, so he’d dropped the subject. Whatever, she was thankful.
Of course, she was sure 452 would come back to haunt her if Witt or Cameron had anything to do with it.
After pushing her purse beneath the seat in front of her, Max shoved a pillow behind her and rolled her shoulders to find a comfortable position. The low hum of engines vibrated through the cabin wall. Cold air blew down on her head, and she reached up to turn off the nozzle. Witt’s eyes tracked the soft rise and fall of her breasts, then his gaze dropped to where her skirt had ridden up her thighs. She shivered though the air was now off.
“I need a blanket.” Her voice came out just short of a squeak.
Barely needing to rise, Witt reached into the overhead, pulled down a blanket, shook it, then draped it over her lap. His fingers brushed her bare flesh as he tucked it in. She shuddered, wondering if he’d insist on sharing a room at their hotel. She chanced a quick look at his eyes and figured the answer was a definite yes.
A mother with a small child shuffled past their row. Thank God. The little tike must be tired out this late at night, but the flight from San Francisco to Chicago was too long to be seated across from a child under five. Max wasn’t a mother and never would be.
She liked stray cats instead. She’d tasked her friend Sutter with feeding the little buzzard while she was gone, Sutter, her best friend, whom she hadn’t spoken with since Cameron died. Until two weeks ago when Max had suddenly shown up on her doorstep. Sutter had a very forgiving nature. And she loved animals.
“I hope Buzzard will be all right without me.” She’d probably lose him to Sutter’s caring arms.
“It’s a stray,” Witt murmured with raised brow as he buckled himself in, then reached over to help her. “It can take care of itself.”
She slapped at his hands. “I can do it.” His touch made her wriggle. She breezed on with her thought, hoping to ignore the sensation. “What about your mother? You haven’t mentioned her.”
Witt closed his eyes and leaned back. “Ladybird will be fine. She’s got Horace.” Max did not point out that the ghost of Witt’s father couldn’t call 911 if there was an emergency. “She thinks we’re running away to get married,” he added.
Max barely restrained a shriek. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing.” He rolled his head to look at her. “I smiled.”
She whapped his arm. “Bastard. She’ll be disappointed.”
“Not as long as we’re home for Thanksgiving.”
Which was why he’d insisted they fly back Monday in order to beat the holiday air traffic. Max hoped they could find Cameron’s sister in five days, three if you figured in all the travel time.
Ohmygod, it suddenly hit her. Thanksgiving at Ladybird’s. “She’s not making Turkey TV dinners, is she?” Max might have to remember how to cook and make the big offer.
“Worse,” Witt answered. “She’s cooking a real turkey.” With another of his gorgeous smiles, he added, “For you.”
Things were getting way too serious in the relationship department, but damn, it felt nice to imagine her and Witt and Ladybird around the dining room table drooling over the scent of overcooked turkey and sawing into undercooked potatoes. There’d be a place for Horace, Witt’s departed father, at one end, and another for Cameron beside Max. Ladybird never neglected a guest, living or spirit.
The queue of passengers waned. A businessman and a college-age boy took the seats opposite, the kid on the aisle. Upon taking his seat and strapping in, he promptly plugged himself into his iPod and closed his eyes. He was snoring by the time the air hostesses cruised the cabin, closing down overhead bins and checking for unfastened seat belts.
The whir of the engines became a roar. Witt sat straighter as the plane pulled away from the gate. The lights flashed on and off, and Witt curled his fingers around the edges of the armrests.
“What’s wrong?” Max murmured.