Page 2 of In Flight

He shrugs. “Figured you wouldn’t want to lose all those drawings.”

“You looked inside?”

“I thought I’d lost you, so I was looking to see if there was a name so you could get it back. Believe me, drawings of flowers and curlicues and hobbit holes and your boyfriend aren’t items at which I’d sneak forbidden glimpses.”

My shoulders stiffen. I was about to take a sip of my tea, but I set it down on the armrest between us. “You don’t have to be rude about it. And they’re not hobbit holes.”

For the first time he slants me a look, arching his eyebrows in a particularly obnoxious way. “Aren’t they?”

I have what everyone describes as a sweet face. Large hazel eyes, full lips, and a dimple on each side of my mouth. I’m not any sort of beauty queen or fashion model. I’ve always considered myself medium in every way—in looks, in size, in desirability. But I have a soft appearance and a soft personality, and most of the people who know me would be shocked to receive any sort of glare from me.

But I glare at the man beside me. As coldly as I’m capable of. “No. They’re not. They’re illustrations for a children’s book I’m writing.”

“I see.” He’s typing something while he speaks, as if I’m merely peripheral to his attention.

I don’t get angry easily, but I’m so infuriated now that my toes curl in my cute little boots.

I’ve done nothing—nothing—to this man except exist, and he’s acting like I deserve to be mocked and belittled.

I don’t say anything else. Some people thrive on provoking reactions, and I’m not going to reward him with one. Turning away, I pick up my knitting and unwind the yarn from my needles (small plastic ones so they’ll be allowed through security) and start working and thinking about something other than the man beside me.

At the first faint sound of my needles sliding together, the man shoots me a quick look like he’s annoyed at what’s barely a sound.

Inspired and far more petty than I’ve ever known myself to be, I clack my needles together purposefully and spread the finished length of my scarf so it accidentally brushes against his arm.

Very carefully, as if it might be contaminated, he picks the scarf up and moves it back to my side of the armrest.

Hiding the amused quiver of my lips, I lean over to retrieve another skein. One I don’t need at the moment. I find a place for it amid the clutter on my lap and after a minute give it a quite intentional nudge that sends it rolling off onto the floor at the man’s feet.

“Oh, sorry,” I say sweetly, leaning over in an exaggerated flutter to fumble on the floor for the yarn. These are coach seats on a small plane. There’s really not much room for maneuvering. I elbow his thigh and get my hair all over his lap in the process of retrieving the skein.

My hair is my best feature. That’s what people have said all my life. It’s long—hanging halfway down my back—thick and curly, a dark brown that glints slightly reddish in the sunlight. I always wear it loose. People sometimes question whether it gets in my way, but I’m used to it like this and feel weird with it pulled up.

The man definitely doesn’t appreciate it. He clears his throat and brushes off the curls, then makes a soft grunting sound when I elbow him—accidentally, of course.

I’m beaming at him innocently as I sit back up, yarn in hand. “I’m so sorry! I’m just a ditzy mess, aren’t I?”

He’s looking at me fully now with narrowed eyes and tightened lips. “Uh-huh.”

Shit. He doesn’t believe me. He knows I’m exaggerating on purpose.

I don’t have a chance to tweak my strategy because the flight attendant starts with the preflight hand gestures to illustrate the recorded instructions. I organize my belongings again, managing to contain them to my side so the man doesn’t get too mad.

He’s a stranger after all. I have no idea what he’ll do if he loses control. Teasing him might be kind of fun, but it’s not worth the risk of pushing it too far.

When the plane starts its taxi to the runway, he appears to have forgotten I exist. He’s busy working away at whatever document is pulled up on his iPad.

I peer at it covertly until I decide it’s some sort of financial spreadsheet and immediately lose interest.

I knit for a while, but the man’s presence beside me keeps annoying me. Not because he’s doing anything wrong at the moment but because I can feel him silently judging me and wishing I were elsewhere.

I’m a nice person. Everyone says so. People often don’t notice me at all. I’m used to fading into the background. But no one has ever wished me away before, and I don’t appreciate it.

Why is he even sitting back here with me? There are several empty seats farther up in coach, so this one wasn’t the only one available when he bought his ticket. Or surely he could have afforded a seat in the small business-class cabin if his suit and electronics are any indication.

As soon as was allowed, he took out a high-end laptop from his case and is now working on that instead. He’s got the same MacBook as my sister Raven. I know how much that thing costs.

Why is he all the way back here? He’s definitely not like me, prone to getting attached to a particular seat.

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