Page 14 of Trapped with the Billionaire

Granny downed more Cheetos.

“Careful, she drools,” Josh whispered, pointing to an orange stain on his shirt sleeve.

Yuck.

I compensated by leaning into him. He didn’t complain.

Slowly, I got used to the warm contact, and it went from provocative to comforting. It had been a long time since I’d leaned on a man—either figuratively or literally. Maybe Sandy was right, and ithadbeen too long.

An hour later, Josh and I were still reading. A line for the bathroom had formed, and I self-consciously avoided eye contact with the constant stream of strangers.

The PA came on again. “We’re diverting north to avoid some weather ahead,” the captain said. “It will add some time to our trip, but I hope it will be a better ride.” The seatbelt light came on again.Better rideandhopelikely didn’t mean smooth air, and I prepared for a bucking bronco.

The flight attendants shooed all the people in the restroom line back to their seats, and the jostling began. The airplane became the puppet as the weather gods yanked the strings.

Granny woke with a start after the second or third big bump.

A big air pocket that felt like going over the top of a roller coaster had my heart racing. How strong did they build these airliners, anyway?

I put my book away to keep from needing the airsick bag. “What was that?” I asked Josh, hoping a conversation would keep my mind from wondering how much it took to break an airplane.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“What gave it away?”

He pointed. “Your death grip.”

I’d missed that I had a white-knuckle grip on the armrest with one hand and my thigh with the other.

He offered his hand. “Squeeze this.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re white as a ghost.” He loosened my fingers from the armrest and placed them over his.

I gripped his hand.

“It’s a medical fact that physical touch lessens anxiety.”

Several even bigger bumps hit the plane and jostled me in my seat. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” His voice carried a conviction I didn’t doubt. “You can trust me. Let your nervousness flow through your hand to me.”

As I held on to him, my heart slowed. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feel of my hand with his.

“Does that help?”

I opened my eyes and nodded.

“Flying’s safer than driving.”

That statistic had never made me feel better. “Tell that to the crash victims. I’d rather be driving.”

“Why?” he asked.

That was an easy one. “Because then I’m in control, and I can avoid the potholes.”

Lightning burst like a camera flash outside the window before it went back to pitch black again.

---