Somehow I don’t think she’s sorry. I think she was trying to get my attention.
I smile. “Ever fancy trying a neck pillow instead of that jumbo-sized thing?” I nod my head at her large, fluffy accessory. “They’re small and travel quite well. You can even purchase one in the airport.”
Full, perfect-as-fuck lips tighten. “I happen to like my pillow.”
I pause as a wave of déjà vu washes over me. There’s something about her face . . .
I cock my head. “Do I know you?”
She shakes her head but she doesn’t look sure.
I squint. “Are you sure we haven’t hooked up before?”
“We haven’t,” she says curtly. “I saw your band in Greenwich Village last night.”
Ah, the bar next to New York University. It had been a sold out show, and I didn’t get out of there until three in the morning.
I nod. “Shame. I don’t remember you.”
She shrugs. “I’m not surprised. You were covered up in girls.”
“We can get to know each other on the plane?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow in her direction.
She blinks as if I flustered her and it makes me grin.
“You aren’t my type.”
“Too bad,” I murmur. “You’re mine.”
Her eyes flare.
Betty hangs up the phone. “Good news! You can take the guitar on. There’s a flight attendant on board named Heidi who’ll be looking for you.”
Finally.
I grin broadly as Betty scans my pass, and with a sardonic Cheerio to the babe, I saunter off to board the plane, my thoughts on seeing my father for the first time in six months. He’s summoned me to his home in Highland Park, outside of Dallas, where he’s starting a whole new life. He wants me to meet his new wife where we can pretend to be one big happy family.
Whatever.
If I want his money, I have to play by his rules.
I walk down the jet-way and stop at the entrance to the plane, where a flight attendant is greeting the passengers.
“Heidi?” I say, my lips tipping up at the curvy redhead in the typical navy skirt and heels.
She smiles back, checking me out. “You must be the owner of the guitar.”
“Indeed.”
She laughs. “Great. I’ll just stow this in the coat closet in first class for you. You can grab it on your way out when we land.” Her smile widens. “Adore your accent. You in a band?”
I nod. “Yeah. Vital Rejects. Ever heard of us?”
She gives me a blank stare.
“Yeah, we’re nobody—at the moment.”
She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “I’ll be sure to check on you quite often,” she says, her lips curving up. “If you need a blanket or a pillow—”
“Good grief, don’t you ever stop flirting? Just please move over. You’re blocking the way for everyone,” calls an annoyed voice from behind me.
Pillow Girl.
Damn, she’s everywhere.
I watch in amusement as she weasels past me, her bottom brushing against my crotch as she huffs and carries on down the aisle.
Her heart-shaped ass sways from side to side in her black dress. She has to be at least five eleven, and that isn’t even in heels. Her legs are tan and smooth and long— Someone bumps into me as I watch her, and I scoot over to give the passengers coming onto the plane more room.
“Would you like to meet the pilot?” Heidi asks me, her smile flirtatious.
“Delta is my favorite airline,” I say.
She giggles and introduces me to the pilot, and I end up giving both of them a copy of our CD and a quick spiel about our music. I sign them both, and before I know it, two other flight attendants are crowding into the cockpit area, insisting on a copy.
I smile at them, used to the attention.
One girl slyly tucks her business card in the back pocket of my jeans as she pats my ass.
I smirk at her and waggle my eyebrows.
She and Heidi exchange a few whispered words, and it’s obvious she’s warning the other girl that I’ve already been claimed.
I chuckle.
Sebastian Tate, our lead singer and my best mate since my prep school days in Highland Park, jokes that I have a way about me that sucks people in. His theory is it’s the accent, but mostly it’s my party like the world is ending attitude. I’m the mate everyone wants. Hell, I’m the guy who volunteers to do the beer run (and pays for it) then comes back with a case of tequila and a carload of beautiful women.
Live fast and collect no hearts is my mantra.
I’m fearless.
After all, I have nothing in life to lose, not when I’ve already lost it all.
I shove those dark thoughts away, blaming them on my pounding head. Fuck hangovers. I just need a bump of pure white bliss to get me over the edge.
After cheek-kissing the flight attendants, I head to my seat and see that my seatmate has already arrived—and guess who it is?
She’s still just as hot as before.
I halt and stare down at her, surprised when I catch a gander at what I see on her Kindle: 100 Foolproof Rules To Get A Man To Fall In Love With You.
I grin.
Is the girl trying to get a bloke?
Oh yeah.
This flight isn’t going to feel nearly as long as I expected after all.
You know the old adage of turning lemons into lemonade? Pillow Girl is my lemon, and I’m going to turn her into the sweetest drink ever.
Rose
I WALK DOWN THE AIRPLANE aisle and eyeball the window seat I’ve been assigned. Three, maybe four inches separate me from death.
Yeah, I’m tough, but flying makes me crazy scared.
Planes are basically just battered tin coffins traveling a million miles an hour. Toss in a small thunderstorm—like the one currently surrounding us—and I’m a freaking basket case. Sweat beads on my forehead as I picture my mangled body on the ground amid flaming debris.
My hands tremble as I unpack my backpack, removing my lucky paperback copy of Jane Eyre, my Kindle—you can’t have too many books—and a sweater. I’m freezing on this plane, and I’m not sure if it’s from nerves or if it’s actually cold. Nerves, I decide as I furtively check out the other passengers who seem warm and toasty.
Shivering, I settle in my seat and try to read the ridiculous book my cousin Marge has downloaded to my Kindle. A twenty-something New Yorker, I stayed with her while I visited New York University on my spring break from prep school. We had some late-night talk sessions, and when I mentioned my crush Trenton back in Highland Park, she made it her mission to load me up with self-help books and advice about how to get the man of your dreams.
It’s a dumb idea, and I know it.
But it’s hard to tell Marge no.
Forgetting the book, I lean my head back against the headrest on the seat. I’m tired from my evening out with her, even though I sat in the corner at the back of the bar and just watched everyone most of the night. I was nervous since I’m only seventeen and used a fake ID, which Marge provided. I’ll be eighteen in September, about five months from now.
My thoughts go back to the hot guy from the gate.
From the moment I first saw him last night, something about him just . . . called to me.