Page 1 of Not Just a Trick Play

CHAPTER ONE

AMELIA

“Do you need a barf bag?”

I crack a pinched lid on the squinty-eyed stare of the blonde teenager to my right.

“No.” Possibly a lie, probably a big one.

“Harrumph.” I’m not sure if she believes me, but presumably doesn’t think I’m an immediate threat. Still, she keeps a wary eye open as she slips her earbuds back in. Good, because at this moment, I can’t find it in myself to worry about what she needs.

The plane lurches, and another wave of nausea roils through me. I grab onto the armrests, gritting my teeth.

“Nervous flyer?”

I turn to the woman on my left. White hair and glasses frame a sympathetic expression. Her kind smile makes me relax, just a smidge.

I muster up a nod.

“We’ll be on the ground soon enough.”

Not soon enough.

Soon enough would have been hours ago, back at Heathrow when I first buckled myself into this deathtrap. Of all the foolish, ill-conceived notions. Because all it takes is onerogue flock of geese or an ill-timed lightning bolt to send us plummeting into the dark depths of the Atlantic.

“You visiting New York? Or returning home?” she asks. I think she’s trying to distract me and save me from myself. Or her shoes from damage. Either-or, I appreciate the effort.

“Visiting.” Politeness forces me to try for more than one-word answers. “My first time.”

“You’re in for an adventure.”

Adventure? Hopefully an escape. One that was badly thought through and even more poorly executed, but when you need to make a quick exit, it doesn’t leave you much time for nailing down a TripAdvisor-approved itinerary.

It doesn’t come with an itinerary at all.

My only goal was getting out of town as quickly as possible. I barely packed, didn’t prepare. All I wanted was to hide at least one ocean away where people spoke English of some kind. New York had always been on my to-see list, and so now I was seeing it sooner than expected. And hoping to stay forever.

Last-minute accommodation was an issue, but I managed to book a frightfully expensive Airbnb while waiting to board. Which is already eating into my barely there budget. Surely, it won’t be too difficult to find employment of some sort to tide me over before my savings run out while I figure out my next steps. It’ll be fine, won’t it?

Because failure is not an option. Because failure means returning to Fordwich. Returning to working at the inn. With Ben.

Ben-the-Bartender, who’d shown up at Gran’s inn right when I’d decided my lack of sexual experience was a problem. Not a big one. Hymen-sized. He’d believed in offering a full-service experience. Where full service equaled the full use of his dick. Exactly what I’d wanted when we began our little affair. I wasn’t looking for anything serious at the time.

But then he started doing more and more at work, and I started thinking forever. With Gran advancing in years and relying on him, the idea of a future where he’d manage the inn while I handled reservations and booked experiences for guests seemed like a perfectly agreeable arrangement.

I began thinking hearts and flowers and engagement rings and children. Right until he showed up with a pregnant fiancée.

Thank god, he’d insisted on discretion, citing Fordwich’s appetite for gossip. At least I’d been able to come up with the flimsy excuse of expiring credit card milage points for Gran before taking off.

I wasn’t about to sit back, running housekeeping and folding towels while this soap opera unfolded, so here I am, stumbling into an unscripted future.

Bile erupts in my throat. Bollocks, maybe I reallyamgoing to throw up.

I look around in a panic. You don’t even get sick bags anymore. All the seat pockets have been replaced with net pouches. Likely so flight attendants can scan for passenger contraband in the form of used socks. Or gum. Or the occasional emotional support hamster. Plus, sick bags are rather unsightly. Though I suppose whatever ends up on the carpet, more so.

My finger hovers over the call button, but it’s the middle of the night, and though dealing with cranky passengers is part and parcel of the job, I’d prefer not to inconvenience the crew.

Suddenly, I’m craving a bit of sugary bliss to sweeten this moment of terror. There should be something in my bag, safely tucked away in the overhead bin. But, wedged tightly in this middle seat, I’m hardly in a position to vault over my neighbors—not in this tin can of doom.

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