Page 78 of Dirty Rich Cinderella Story

She’s gone again, and Lori pulls out a sandwich. “You,” she says. “My daringness that night was about you.” And before I can reply or demand her meaning, she changes the subject. “Do you think the detective is setting up the starlet to get to you?”

“I’m letting you change the subject,” I say, “but I’m going to ask for clarification later. As for the detective and our starlet client, I do think he’s using her to get to me.”

She seems to consider that a moment. “But what can he really do to take you down?”

“You’d be surprised what a dirty law enforcement agency can do. And as for the question of what that will be, the unknown is always the elephant with fangs in the room.”

We talk back and forth, debating ways law enforcement might come at me, and how I go at them while, of course, stuffing our faces. During this brief process I’m struck by how well we bat ideas back and forth. By the way I can hit back, and Lori is right there, giving me what she’s got, undeterred by me downing an idea or placing a roadblock in front of her.

We’re cut off when the engines roar to life and Lori’s lips clamp shut while her empty box goes under her seat to allow her to buckle back up. The plane starts to move and I follow her lead. “Did I mention I don’t like to fly?” she asks, gripping the arms of her seat.

I cover her hand with my hand. “Any notable reason for that fear?”

“I didn’t say fear,” she corrects. “I simply said that I don’t like it.”

“Any notable reason not to like it?” I ask, trying not to laugh at that correction.

“Just the fear of crashing.” She laughs and looks at me. “I just admitted to being afraid.”

“Yes,” I say, and this time I laugh with her. “You did.” The plane starts to pick up speed.

“I really hate take-off,” she pants out, looking out of the window.

I squeeze her hand. “Look at me again.”

“Not right now,” she says.

“Now,” I say, reaching across her and pulling the shade.

“I need to see,” she says, reaching for the shade I hold in place.

“If you can’t see take-off, you can’t see what you can’t control. Trust me. It works. Leave it down. Try it for me.”

She inhales and lets it out. “Okay. But you better be right.”

“I am right,” I say, sinking back into my seat. “Now, look at me.”

She inhales again and turns her apprehensive, green-eyed stare on me. “You’re beautiful,” I say.

“You’re trying to distract me,” she accuses.

“Yes, but I’m doing it by telling you the truth. That’s exactly what I thought that day when you ran into me on the street. She’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“You ran into me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay well, I’m damn glad you ran into me.”

She laughs. “You’re impossible.”

“For everyone but you, apparently. How many times have you flown?”

“Three miserable times,” she says. “And I want to get over this. I do. I want to see the world, but this is a real problem for me.”

“I’ll teach you to fly,” I say. “You’ll get over your fear.”

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