Fresh Start - The Rosewoods Series prequel, Page 2

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  It felt like a pivotal moment, getting on the plane. I guess it was one—moving back to the States from London. Starting a new life, leaving the old one—and my parents—far behind. I was excited and at the same time terrified. Would I like my roommate? How about my classmates? Would this school be full of celebutantes and snobs?

  And most importantly, would they like me?

  I tucked that thought away for the time being as I waited for the people in front of me to get themselves sorted in the aisle. I knew I’d be heading to the back of the plane, but at least it was a window seat, so I only had to deal with one adjacent-sitting stranger on the way to New York. Maybe I’d get lucky and the plane wouldn’t be full. Right, I told myself, almost laughing at the thought. Because the universe is always kind. My luck I’d get stuck next to a giant guy who loved talking about his various gastrointestinal problems only slightly more than he loved garlicky foods.

  My backpack still slung over my shoulders, I tugged my carry-on bag down the aisle, keeping my eye on the row numbers: forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight. There. Row forty-nine, seat B was so far unoccupied, so I said a little prayer as I shoved my carry-on into the overhead bin that it would stay so.

  I took my earphones and sleep mask out of my backpack and tucked the bag under the seat in front of me, then lowered myself into seat C. Still no one beside me.

  I pulled the seatbelt across and fastened it with a satisfying click when a young-ish woman stopped at my row. She wouldn’t be so bad, I told myself, giving her a friendly smile. She returned the smile and dropped into seat A, leaving the one between us empty. She leaned over the aisle and spoke to a man sitting in the other aisle seat, so it looked like they wouldn’t be using that center one.

  I finally settled in and waited, watching over the seat in front of me as people got themselves sorted, stuffing their luggage and coats into the overhead bins and getting out their assorted pillows and technology for the long overseas flight. As the aisle started to clear when most people were getting settled in their seats, one of the flight attendants came down, snapping the overhead doors closed.

  Still, the seat beside me remained vacant.

  I exhaled and closed my eyes, waiting for takeoff, grateful for my good luck.

  Until a few minutes later, when the seat moved under me and an elbow met my ribs.

  My eyes flew open and I let out a gasp, more out of shock than pain.

  “Sorry,” said the grinning guy who was now sitting in seat B. “Didn’t think I’d make it,” he added, his breath labored as he recovered from what must have been a sprint through the terminal.

  “It’s okay,” I said, smiling back at him and hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt at that precise moment.

  Because okay, so the universe wasn’t going to grant me a free seat for the eight hour flight, but it was going to give me this. This being a really cute English guy. He looked to be in his early twenties and had on a light blue button-down over a white t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans that probably felt like flannel right out of the dryer. Speaking of, he almost smelled like he was right out of the dryer, all clean and warm, and I fought the urge to lean in close to get a good whiff.

  Add to that his sapphire blue eyes and messy dark hair and if I hadn’t already been seated, I would have felt just a little bit dizzy.

  Get a grip, I told myself. I dropped my eyes to look at my fidgeting fingers as I tried to do the math on how many minutes and seconds I was going to spend seated next to this guy.

  Needing something to do other than math, I took the Sky Mall catalog out of the seat pocket in front of me and started flipping through it, still very hyperaware of the guy as he settled in and fastened his seatbelt.

  “I’m Graeme, by the way,” he said suddenly and when I lifted my eyes, I noticed his hand out.

  Being right beside him made shaking hands an awkward maneuver, but I rested the magazine on my lap and stealthily dragged my slightly sweaty palm along my thigh before sliding my hand into his. “Brooklyn.”

  If he noticed any clamminess, he didn’t let on.

  “Charmed,” he said, which was hilarious because if either of us was charming, it sure wasn’t me. “Here’s to a smooth flight.”

  Here’s to not making a fool of myself in front of you, I thought. Outwardly, I simply smiled and returned my eyes to the magazine, but not my attention. Every move, every breath, I felt or heard as my entire consciousness was tuned to this guy beside me.

  Trying to strategize the best way to engage him, I rejected pretty much every idea my decidedly non-charming brain threw out.

  Witty banter? Not unless stuttering and saying ridiculously lame things could be considered witty.

  ‘Accidentally’ bump his hand over the armrest? Too intimate.

  ‘Accidentally’ bump his thigh with my knee? Waaaay too intimate.

  Get up to go to the bathroom and slide across his lap? Okay, not. Giving a cute guy an unsolicited lapdance on a plane is not a good way to get his attention. I mean, of course, it would totally get his attention, but not in a good way at all.

  So yeah. My choices were pretty limited and all had the potential for disaster. Which meant I did nothing.

  After the safety demo where I pretended to pay attention out of respect for the flight attendants, I slid the Sky Mall catalog back into the pouch and pulled out my sleeping mask. It was reasonable to have a nap on an evening overseas flight and just to sell it a little, I faked a small yawn.

  And nearly did a fist-pump when Graeme yawned almost right after, telling me he was paying attention. It was possible that was one hell of a coincidence, but I didn’t think so.

  Pretending I hadn’t noticed (and hoping he didn’t notice the tiny smile I was fighting) I pulled the mask over my face, hunkered down in my seat and stuffed my hands into the side pockets of my hoodie.

  “Sleep tight,” I heard from beside me.

  “Thanks,” I said, allowing the smile now, wishing I hadn’t covered my eyes, but now it was too late. The mask was on, I was committed to sleeping. Or pretending to sleep while I listened to him rustle and breathe beside me.

  Finally, as his breathing evened out and deepened, I matched my breaths to his and eventually drifted off.