When our flight attendant introduced herself—Jane, and welcome to the friendly skies—Matt rattled off a list of requests, his smooth voice and snowy smile dazzling her. “An extra pillow and blanket for her”—he touched my hand—“and wine, please, white if you have it. None for me.” He pressed a twenty into her hand. She dithered, then accepted the bill, and fawned over us for the rest of the flight.
I’d never seen anyone tip a flight attendant, but Matt tipped his way through existence—a twenty for the man who helped with our bags, a twenty after dinner, a fifty for curbside check-in—and we coasted effortlessly across the country.
We could, I realized, coast effortlessly through life. No jobs … nice meals … world travel … ease. Why did I buck against it? So many people would kill for that life.
“If we tell her about our engagement”—Matt’s voice snapped me out of my daydream—“she’ll announce it over the PA system.” He questioned me with a glance.
“No! Er, no … thank you.”
He chuckled and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“I feel underdressed,” I mumbled.
“Hm?” He studied my outfit as if seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t the first time, though. That morning, when I’d stepped out of our closet wearing skintight black leggings, Matt spent a good ten minutes circling me and admiring my ass. Hands-on admiration. “Bird, you look fine.” He rubbed my thigh. “You look comfy.”
He dozed and I drank a second glass of wine. The flight attendant kept them coming.
I looked comfy. Right. And Matt looked like he belonged in first class. This was his world, and he’d stepped down from his world to live in a tiny condo with me, surrounded by walls he painted—for me!—in ludicrous colors. Surrounded by cheap knickknacks the likes of which I’d never seen in his former apartment.
No wonder he wanted to buy a mansion for us, a home where he might feel comfortable.
I studied his sleeping profile.
The cabin jostled, a tremor of turbulence. Matt’s brow furrowed and smoothed.
Behind me, a woman purred about her home on Lake Geneva … Switzerland.
I drained my glass and felt small.
We landed at Newark International a little before midnight and emerged into a haze of humidity. I toddled after Matt, rubbing sleep from my eyes. He’d had nothing to eat or drink during the flight except coffee. He walked too fast, just like Nate, and glowered at everything.
A dark Mercedes—almost black, but with a ruby undertone—waited for us at the curb. Matt signed some paperwork, tipped the delivery driver, and asked if I was hungry … for the third time.
“No,” I said. “I promise.”
He adjusted his seat while I gazed at the car’s interior. LEDs cast lines of soft purple light on leather upholstery. Thick, perfect stitching followed the car’s sexy curves. Yes, this car was the definition of sexy. No wonder Matt had rented it.
“I’ve been thinking of getting one of these,” he said. I jumped. He was staring at me, his dark eyes narrowed. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. For sure. It’s…” My eyes swept the palatial cabin. “Nice.”
“‘Nice’?” His mouth twitched.
“Er, supernice. Beautiful. It smells great.” I shoved my nose against the leather. Matt laughed and touched my cheek.
“Wine puts such a pretty glow on your face.”
That glow brightened, I’m sure.
The Mercedes glided like a yacht into the night. I remember Matt’s hand adjusting the rearview mirror. I remember admiring his hand, his wrist and the creamy cuff of his sleeve, and then sliding awake at the sound of his voice.
“Baby bird,” he said. “We’re at the hotel.”
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Ugh, all that wine on the plane …
“Sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry. Let me carry you in.”
I wanted to put up a fight, but Matt’s arms felt so good, so secure, and he smelled like soap and clean leather. I laid my head against his chest and watched the world through barely open eyes. I saw light splashed on white stone, a great glass conservatory that looked like a greenhouse, and inside, warm wood paneling and ornate area rugs.