Page 4 of Obey

She’s giggling, nervousness making her voice shake. “I’m not normally so clumsy. I fell...” Her sentence trails off as though she sees something on my face that tells her I’m not in the mood to chat.

Heaving out a sigh, I roll my eyes.

It’s like sitting next to a goddamn child.

Without another sound, I open the bottle and hand it back to her. The striking difference between her tiny, pale handcompared to my tawny bear-sized-paw is almost laughable. I want to say her blinding grin and sheepish thanks don’t affect me, but the warmth behind the softly spoken “thanks,” is undeniable, and seeps into my skin. Just a little.

“Can you believe how heavy it’s coming down out there?” She hooks a thumb at the window before turning to give a wistful look outside. “You think we’ll be able to take off?” She gnaws on her thumbnail.

I don’t have headphones within reach. I left them at home. Usually my gruff disposition is enough to turn people off from making small talk. But Half-Pint isn’t taking the hint.

What the fuck is she prattling about? Is she expecting me to answer? If she’d take a goddamn breath I’d consider getting a word in. Maybe. Probably not. Tipping my head back onto the headrest, I close my eyes. Would she even notice if I fell asleep? Do I need to be an active participant in this conversation?

Seems not, since she’s even answering herself. She’s playing both parts in the discussion and doesn’t seem at all phased that I’ve checked out.

After a beat, her high-pitched voice stops for a blissful moment. Cracking open my left eye, just a slit, I hold my breath not wanting to draw attention to myself.

“Oh! You’re awake. Thought I’d lost you for a second.”

Fuck.

She’s relentless.

I’m regretting my decision to let that family sit together. I want my seat back. I want my peace and quiet back.

Is this woman really telling me about her grandparents? The fuck?

As a mechanic, I’m surrounded by people all day every day. Not just by my team in the garage, but I have to interact with clients, too. I get by. I mean, people aren’t my favorite, but I make it work.

Yet I’ve never met someone who launches into their family history at the drop of a hat. I don’t even know this woman’s name, but her mamaw makes the best peach cobbler in the entire world. Her brother is married to a rodeo cowgirl who just broke her leg getting bucked off a prized horse. And her family dog is named Bark Twain.

She barely slows her roll to down the chardonnay before turning to me with a second little bottle of liquor. “Would you?”

My only hope at this stage is that consuming two drinks at speed will make her fall the fuck asleep so she shuts the hell up, and I can go back to reading my book.

She’s been talking at me for so long I have no idea what the hell happened on the last page. Or even in the last chapter. My watch tells me it hasn’t been days or hours. In fact, this elfish hurricane has been in my life for less than an hour.

With any luck, when I hand her back the second bottle of liquor, she’ll leave me alone. As I crack the seal on the bottle, she gasps so loudly the people sitting across the aisle from us turn toward us.

Heat creeps up the back of my neck. If there was a trap door under my feet, I’d yank it open and take the emergency exit straight out of this tin can. She points at my hoodie now hanging from the chair in front of me. It ended up on the ground after our tangle when she landed in my lap, I figured hanging it up was the safe bet, but apparently it only makes her want to talk even more.

“You went to the University of Minnesota?”

My stomach drops. I don’t want to have anything in common with this woman, because it seems any potential shared interests will result in lengthy conversations I have no interest in pursuing.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Oh. Em. Gee. I went there too. And so did Harry, my fiancé.”

The tension in my body loosens at the announcement that she’s off the market, and she’s not hitting on me. If she was, she’s going about it the wrong way. I love a woman who knows the value of comfortable silence. Or at least one who doesn’t fill every single goddamn moment with banal chatter.

Speaking of quiet, she’s been silent for longer than a heartbeat, so I risk a glance. Her face has crumpled, her shoulders curled, and her head hangs. If I focus really hard on her mouth, her chin trembles.

Oh, fuck no. Is she going to cry?

It’s too late to get my seat back from the family a few rows back, but perhaps there’s a chance the captain will trade seats with me so I can escape the ball of emotions sitting next to me. I’m a quick study. I’d happily fly this bird to Chicago, if he’d take Little Miss Chatterbox off my hands.

Sounds like a fair exchange to me.

She seems to have forgotten I’m sitting next to her. She’s muttering about what a cheating dillweed this guy was and how she didn’t expect to be single on her visit back to her grandparents. The ice wall around my heart thaws. Just a little. There’s nothing worse than an asshole who steps out on his woman.

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