Page 7 of In Flight

I might as well work on the design for the guest book since I need something to occupy my mind other than the infuriating man’s silent smugness.

My sister’s design motifs are roses and champagne flutes. I tried to get her to go with something slightly less clichéd, but she wouldn’t be moved. So roses and champagne flutes it is.

I sketch out a few variations and then add some curling vines for some interest.

I’m on my third option to show her when the man asks, “What exactly are you working on?”

For a few minutes I was so absorbed in my work that I almost forgot about him, but that blissful state couldn’t last long. “A design for my sister.”

“The invitation?”

“No. I already did those. This is for the pressed foil on the guest book. You know that little book that people sign for the couple? It’ll be white leather with silver foil.”

Since he appears at least somewhat interested, I turn my sketchbook so he can see the illustration better.

“You did that whole thing just now? While we were sitting here? You drew that?”

I can’t really tell from the dryness of his tone, but I suspect the question might be an implied compliment. “Yes. I did these other two too.” I show him the other two pages I worked on. “I’m not sure what she’ll prefer.”

He studies each one. Then flips back to the last one. “I like this the best.”

“Me too. But she’ll probably like the second one. She’s of the mind that the fancier and more over-the-top the better.”

He lets out a soft huff. It takes me a minute to realize it was a faint, breathy chuckle.

“It’s not my wedding,” I continue, “so she can have it exactly as she wants.”

“So you’re really having to do a bunch of designs for free?”

My eyes widen as I stare at him. “She’s my sister. You think I should charge her?”

“No. Not necessarily. But it’s a lot to ask. What else are you having to do?”

“Nothing too terrible. I’m doing all the illustration designs. And working with the florist on the flower arrangements. And she wants me to sketch something out for the cake. And—”

“And you’re saying all that isn’t unreasonable?”

“Well, no. Why would it be? I like to do that kind of thing, and we’re talking about my family.”

“Is she expecting you to design her dress too?”

“Oh no. She wouldn’t trust me with that.” I lean over and add in a stage whisper, “She hates my fashion sense.”

I see his brown eyes run up and down my body, taking in my soft, comfortable dress in a pretty floral pattern of pinks and browns and my cozy fur-lined boots. “I can see that.”

See, this is my problem. I always give people the benefit of the doubt. I was actually softening toward him, thinking he was genuinely interested and appreciative of my work. But at his sardonic mutter, I stiffen. Give him my best glare. “It’s rude to criticize someone’s clothes right to her face.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. But I’m getting a sense of your sister’s personality, and I can see why she wouldn’t go for your style. It’s not...”

“It’s not what?”

“Trendy. And I bet your sister loves all the trends.”

Of course she does. Raven has followed whatever is in style all her life, never developing her own sense of taste or fashion.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be in style,” I say primly, feeling defensive of my sister even though the man’s opinions on this one subject match my own.

“Did I say there was?”

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