Chapter 8:

Holy hell. When I say gorgeous, I mean fucking stunning. I don't want to stare, so I quickly distract myself by removing my backpack trying not to listen to the people around me continuing to make snide comments. I fish around for my iPad then stuff the black bag under the seat in front of me.

I wipe the sweat from the side of my head on my jacket sleeve, then quickly shed that major part of my discomfort. I'm on the verge of throwing up, and apparently, Male Model here next to me is acutely aware he may be caught in the cross fire. I notice him reach up to the call button before I try to hide my face in my hands.

Taking several deep breaths, I try not to cry. I'm a total mess. If I don't get myself under control before this plane takes off, not only will I have an anxiety attack, but I'll be suffering from motion sickness as well. When the stewardess approaches, I tense in preparation to hear the complaints of my co-passenger.

"Ma'am, can you get the lady some water before we take off?" His voice is warm and friendly. I'm shocked this complete stranger is trying to help.

"Certainly, sir. Let me see what I can find." She seems a little put off but willing to do whatever he asks. My guess is had I asked myself she would have told me to wait until drinks were served mid-flight.

Sitting back up, I look to him with tear-filled eyes. "Thank you."

"Sure thing." He reaches up and turns on the air, pointing the vent to me. "Some air will probably help. I've had the same thing happen. It rattles you a bit." His smile is reassuring, setting me at ease.

I fan myself with a magazine from the back of the seat while he continues chatting. "Do you have a tie for your hair? It might help to get it off your neck."

Jesus, he's attractive and thoughtful. Setting the magazine down, I pull the tie off my wrist and finger my long brown hair into a ponytail at the top of my head, instantly cooling me ten degrees. With an awkward smile, I say, "Thanks."

The stewardess returns with a bottle of water, handing it to me, along with a barf bag, but never acknowledges my existence; instead, she focuses on the luscious specimen beside me. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"

"No, thank you." He dismisses her, never taking his eyes off me.

I don't know what to do with this kind of attention. I'm socially awkward, at best. I do really well in business settings, but when it comes to matters of the heart, the words "epic failure" come to mind. Don't get me wrong, I'm not hard on the eyes, but I'm nothing to write home about, either.

At thirty-five years old, my hair is probably too long, reaching the middle of my back, I don't wear make-up, and I'm more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt. I'm a bit of a tom-boy at heart, but at five foot eight with an athletic build and a nice rack, I don't have problem attracting male attention. I just can't hold it. Either men irritate the shit out of me and I'm not interested, or they totally overwhelm me, and then they aren't interested.

The man beside me clearly falls into the second category.

His eyes are a warm green, his hair a dirty blond. He has on a cream-colored dress shirt and gray slacks, but even sitting down, the cut of the suit accentuates his stature. He's definitely well-built. From the cuff of his shirt, I see just the slightest bit of ink peaking out under his watch. I carefully note his hands, no wedding ring, and no tan line indicating one had been there recently.

He must catch me looking, because he says, "I'm not married." There's a gleam in his eyes; he obviously finds humor in this as he holds both hands up to show me he's not hiding anything.

My face heats up, crimson in color. "Sorry. Bad habit," I admit. And yes, it is a habit because I have had countless married men try to pick me up for a one-nighter.

"Is Houston your final destination?"

"Yes, thank God."

He looks at me as if he's waiting for more.

"I don't really care for traveling."

"Me either, but it's a necessary evil. Do you live in Houston?"

"Nope. South Carolina. Going to Houston for business. Quick trip. I fly back out the day after tomorrow. What about you?"

"I live in Houston. Flying back home after several weeks on the road. I can't wait to be back in my own space. Hotels get old."

The conversation flows continuously throughout the flight, and before I know it, I feel like I've connected with this incredibly thoughtful, intelligent, sinfully sexy man. Of course, the plane begins its descent too quickly. He's been flirty and engaging, funny and captivating. I feel a twinge of sadness knowing when we leave the plane, he'll be gone.

As we start to exit, I grab my overhead bag, strap on my backpack, and turn to him to say goodbye. Not realizing he is hovering in the seat, hunched over and waiting to get in the aisle, I crash my head into his.

He jerks back in pain, hitting the backside of his skull on the overhead compartments. "Shit!"

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." Perfect time for my clumsy twin to rear her ugly head. This is the awkwardness that has kept me single well into my thirties. I reach out to touch the side of his forehead, not thinking about what I'm doing. He stills, looks me in the eyes, and lifts his hand to touch mine before I can pull it back. I slowly stroke the side of his face.

I felt a moment.

I wonder if he felt it.

"No big deal." I guess he didn't.

I give him a meek smile before moving up the aisle.

I want to wait for him, continue talking to him, when I realize I don't even know his name and he never asked mine. I'm such a daft cow. Bloody hell. Here I am thinking there's some beautiful connection to this stranger I met by happenstance on a plane, when in actuality, he was just being nice, effectively making the time fly by.

Silently berating myself for my naivety, I move expeditiously toward baggage claim where my limo driver will meet me.