Easy Magic (Boudreaux #5)

“That’s nice to hear,” I reply. “You’ve never been?”


“Not yet, but I’ll make a point to go the next time I’m in the area.”

So he doesn’t live in Portland.

Bummer. Mac is one guy I wouldn’t mind running into again.

But before I can give this much more thought, the door of the plane is locked and they’re announcing the flight time and showing me how to use my seat belt—really, is not knowing how to fasten a seat belt a thing?—and use the oxygen mask if I should need it.

Please, God, don’t let me need it.

The door between me and the pilot is closed, and the plane pulls away from the gate.

And I think I’m going to throw up.

“If you need to get sick,” Mac says, seemingly reading my mind, “there’s a bag here.”

“I’m not going to get sick.”

I hope.

“I like your tattoos,” he says.

“Thanks.”

The plane drives for what feels like forever, passing other planes and gates.

“Are we driving there? I had no idea this was a road trip. I would have brought some chips.” I sigh deeply and rub my forehead, which is disgustingly sticky with sweat.

“We’re taxiing to the runway,” Mac says. “If you need to grab my hand, I don’t mind.”

“Are you hitting on me?” I ask, turning to him now, and finding him smiling widely at me, his green eyes lit with humor.

“No. I’m offering my hand if you’re afraid.”

“But you’re not hitting on me.”

Damn.

“Not unless you want me to.” His lips twitch as his eyes lower to my lips, and I wish with all my might that we were in my bar rather than in this plane so I could flirt back and enjoy him a bit.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper, and lick my lips.

“You’re not going to die, Kat.” His eyes grow serious now. He blinks once, his jaw firms, and he takes my hand. “You’re not going to die.”

“Okay.”

I nod and sit back in my chair, but then suddenly the plane turns a corner and picks up speed, racing down the runway.

Oh. My. God.

It lifts up off the ground, and we’re soaring in the air, and I’m going to pass out.

“Deep breaths.” Mac’s voice is in my ear. I comply, taking a deep breath, letting it out, then taking another one. “No passing out on me.”

“Are you psychic?” I ask breathlessly.

“No, you’re turning blue.” I can hear the smile in his voice, but I’m not brave enough to open my eyes to look at him. “If you could let up just a bit on my hand, I’d appreciate it.”

I immediately let go of his hand and open my eyes. He’s shaking his hand, as if I’d just almost taken it off, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize I was holding it so tightly.”

“I think I’ll have blood flow back in my fingers by next week,” he replies with a smile. He sees me glance to the window and immediately closes it so I can’t see the ground moving farther away. “If you don’t look outside, it just feels like we’re on a train.”

“No, this doesn’t feel like a train.”

“Tell me about your tattoos.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to distract you from being scared,” he says, and shifts in his seat. A bell dings, catching my attention. “That’s just how the pilot communicates with the flight attendants.”

“Like Morse code?”

“Something like that,” he replies. “So tell me about your tattoos.”

“No.”

I shake my head and clench my hands in my lap.

“Why not?”

“Tattoos are personal, and I don’t know you.”

“You held my hand,” he says, and then laughs when I toss him a glare. “Okay, no personal stuff. What are we supposed to talk about, then?”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to talk.”

“Sweetheart, I think that if we don’t talk, you’ll make yourself crazy with reliving every Lost episode you ever saw.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that until now!”

“Where did you go to high school?”

“I was homeschooled,” I reply. “Graduated at sixteen, then went to college. Now I run a bar. That’s pretty much it.”

“I think there’s probably more to you than that, but okay.”

“Why is the flight attendant walking around? Shouldn’t she have her seat belt on?”

“She’s going to serve us refreshments,” he says. “She’s used to this. Trust me.”

I don’t know why I trust him, but I do. He’s nice. I also don’t know why I’m on this freaking plane. This was a very bad idea.

“Damn them for dangling a sexcation in my face.”

“Excuse me?” Mac grins, but I just shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“What can I get you to drink?” the flight attendant asks, and sets a napkin on the armrest between Mac and me.

“More water, please,” I reply, proud of myself for having enough wits about me to answer her question. She delivers the water, and a snack, and I sit back, relieved to find that Mac’s right: it really does feel like a loud train ride.

“You’re doing great,” he says a few minutes later as he munches on a bag of chips. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” I reply. “I don’t love it, but I think I’m going to survive it.”

“Good.”

Just as I’m beginning to think that I’m a pro at this flying gig, the plane starts to shake and dip. The pilot comes over the speakers and tells us all to buckle up and the flight attendants to return to their seats.

And I look at Mac in blind panic.

“It’s just rough air,” he says gently.

“Seriously? We have to fly through rough air on my first flight?”

“I’m quite sure it’s a conspiracy,” Mac replies, his face dead sober. “We should write a letter to our congressman.”

“Shut up,” I snap, and wince when the plane shakes some more. The flight attendants hurry to stow their carts and get in their belts, and for the rest of the remaining hour to California, we are restricted to our seats while the plane takes us on the ride of terror.

“I’m sweating again,” I mutter, and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.

“Here,” Mac says, and passes me the napkin from under his drink. “It’s cold.”

“Thanks.” It feels good on my head. I shudder to think what my makeup must look like, but then again, I don’t give a shit. If we die in this tin can, it won’t matter what my makeup looks like.

“We’re not going to die,” Mac says.

“Stop reading my mind,” I reply.

“You said it out loud,” he says with a laugh. “I’m sorry this flight is so bumpy. It isn’t usually this bad.”

“I need to get on the ground.” I turn to him and grip his hand tightly. “I can’t do this anymore. I need to be on the ground.”

“Okay, sweetheart, take another deep breath.”

I do, and turn away, but he pulls me back to look him in the eyes. “No, you stay with me. Deep breaths. Listen to my voice.”

“You have a good voice.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.” He grins and drags his knuckle down my cheek. If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d climb him.