Page 7 of What are the Chances

His head rears back, and his glare turns to ice. Great, at this rate, he's going to file a restraining order of some kind.

“I’m sorry I laughed." I sigh, leaning over Alma's chair. "It’s just, who on earth travels to America to go to school, only to become an accountant? Better yet,"—I hold up my finger to make a point—“who moves to L.A. to become an accountant? When people follow their dreams and move somewhere like Los Angeles, they go on the Voice or act as an extra in a film, hoping for their big break. They wait tables while they attend film or dance school. Something that requires skill and a shit ton of luck.”

Mason lets his eyes lazily roam over my features again but before he can say anything, Alma is back. Instead of immediately returning to her seat, she stands at the end of the aisle beside me, looking at Mason with pleading eyes.

“Could you trade me places, dear? The wall would help me rest a bit.”

Mason’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. Several seconds pass before he finally smiles at Alma, resolving to give her his seat. He scoots over, making sure to take Noodge with him. As soon as he sits down and the three of us make ourselves comfortable, his warm arm unintentionally rests against mine.

Shit. Being next to him was not going to be a good thing.

He situates his tablet on his new tray table like it was before. Alma snuggles herself against the wall, still using her neck pillow and gently pulls an eye mask over her eyes. Mason looks at Alma and reaches into his backpack, pulling out a light blanket, quietly draping it over her. My ovaries nearly explode, watching him being so gentle, so caring. I continue to watch him as he turns back toward me. He looks tired. His hooded green eyes are darker under the dim overhead lights. He doesn’t answer my curiosity about him becoming an accountant and moving to the United States. Instead, he pulls out a white headphone splitter.

“Do you have headphones?”

I nod, not certain what he's suggesting. He holds out his hand, gesturing for them. Bending over, I reach into my oversized purse resting between my feet and tug them free, placing them in his palm and watch as he untangles the small knotted mess. He attaches my headphones to the splitter and plugs the splitter into his tablet. Putting his own headphones in, he raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for me to follow. Smirking, I slide my earbuds in.

Mason holds the tablet between us and selects a movie from his home screen. His finger hovers over the play button, but I stop him, placing my hand over his. His eyes immediately dart to our touching hands. Shocked at myself, and as if I had unconsciously touched a burning flame, I jerk my hand back and clear my throat.

“What’s a jack?”

“What?” he asks, pulling out one of his earbuds. I’m not exactly sure why he does this because we haven’t even started the movie yet.

“What Alma said when she got up,” I explain, nodding toward the front of the plane. “She said she had to use the jacks. What did she mean?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “It’s what us Irish folk call what you Americans so gracefully refer to as the bathroom.”

“Oh.” I raise my eyebrows and frown in thought. Tilting my head, I add, “Calling it a jack is no more sophisticated sounding than calling it a bathroom.”

His eyes light with amusement, a small smile spreading across his beautiful lips. He doesn’t speak another word before he replaces his earbud and taps the play button on his tablet.

The movie is something a bit older. My heart nearly skips a beat when I see the beginning credits for Tommy Boy. It is definitely one of my favorite movies of all time. Or in my top five at least.

Mason lifts the armrest between us and sidles up next to me until we're practically cuddling. My heart is thundering in my chest. What am I supposed to do, turn down the generosity he is so obviously extending with this gesture? No, Mason was offering an olive branch, and I’d be damned if I turned him down. So, I snuggle into his side and quietly watch as Chris Farley makes a fool of himself on the screen. I just hope I don’t fall asleep—sleeping this close to Mason while I was having not so platonic thoughts of him would be monumentally bad.

Fucking catastrophic.

***

I feel warm and perfectly comfortable. I don’t want to wake up. Who knew sleeping on a plane could actually be comfortable? The only thing I don’t understand is why the armrest keeps pulsating and getting firmer by the second. It seems strange, but my still half asleep brain rationalizes my situation. My hand flexes, squeezing the armrest harder. Was this some weird alternate dimension where I felt things but couldn’t really feel them? Come to think of it, the entire armrest feels off.

“Fucking hell. Wake up, Charlotte.”

Mason’s voice rumbles above me, and I freeze in place, hand on the armrest that's pulsating and twitching. Quickly, I snap open my eyes. My hand isn’t on the armrest. It is, however, in Mason’s lap. More specifically, it's on his thigh, and I'm literally gripping his junk. I sit up so fast, my head hits Mason’s chin.

“Fuck,” he groans, jerking his head to the side.

I bring my hands to my hair, frantically raking my fingers through the tangled mess, attempting to correct the disheveled mass. Embarrassed, I mutter an apology. Actually, I mutter a thousand apologies. My face is on fire, and my chest is tight. Did I just cheat? Was I a cheater now? I swore I’d never be that person in the relationship, and now, maybe I was. Oh, shit.

I correct myself in the seat and reach for my water bottle. Tipping it back, I take a long drink, forcing myself to remain calm. Mason has one hand over his eyes and one arm resting over his thigh—where my hand had been just moments ago. He’s obviously trying to cover up the erection I had unintentionally given him.

God, this was embarrassing.

I search the cabin, attempting to gain my bearings. The sky is still dark and most everyone is asleep. More importantly, Alma's still fast asleep and most likely didn’t witness my grope-fest. Finally calm enough to form a real apology, I shift in my seat a fraction.

“Uh, sorry about that.” Unable to look him in the eye, I glance at Mason’s lap and hope he will just forgive me and move on. I hope we can somehow forget this little incident ever happened.

He lets out a low chuckle and lowers his hand from his face, gracing me with a brilliant smile.

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