Page 2 of Not the Plan

She opened her eyes as the demigod’s messenger bag slid onto the seat next to hers. Heat blasted into her cheeks as a bright flash of embarrassment crackled over her already frayed nerves when she realized he’d changed into a moss green shirt.

“Uh…yeah,” she mumbled, tugging at the cuff of her cardigan. “Nice shirt.” She snapped her mouth shut.Great. My nerves are making me snarky.

He chuckled, taking his seat. “Thanks. I started the day with a white one, but some crazy lady spilled coffee all over it and I had to change.”

Swallowing over the lump in her throat kept her from clapping back. Why did he have to be so hot? She smoothed her cardigan sleeve, trying to ground herself again. She was going to be next to him for nearly two hours. And you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“That color works better for you than plain white.”

“Does it?”

She nodded, proud of the ability to flirt while strapped in a giant steel tube about to be blasted into the air. The corner of his mouth dipped down, and a hint of red crept up his neck as he leafed through his bag, found a magazine, and tucked it in the seat pouch in front of him.

Is the demigod a little shy?She suppressed a chuckle.

“It’s also a good cut for you,” she said. He slid his bag under the seat. “It fits your shoulders just right.”

Demigod raised both eyebrows and gave her a genuine smile. He had a chiseled jaw. And full, inviting lips. And dimples. Literally, the sexiest man she had ever seen. Her heart dipped as his gaze caressed her cheek and the hollow of her throat.

“I’m Karim,” he said, offering his hand.

“Isadora. I am sorry about your shirt.”

“No, it’s nothing.”

“At least let me have it cleaned.”

“Really, it’s no big deal. I already rinsed it in the restroom. I doubt the stain will set.”

“That’s good.” Unsure of what to say next, she returned her earbuds to their place. She didn’t want to be impolite, but it was a habit, part of her method to get into an acceptable mental space before takeoff. The flight attendants were about to start their safety instructions and her ritual included following along. She’d mastered the art of watching disinterestedly with her earbuds in place. Nobody else knew that her music was off, and she was actually hanging on to every word, willing her heart to stop pounding. But now it was going a little fast for a different reason. Her pre-flight ritual did not include basking in Karim’s cologne. Or…what was that smell underneath? Him? Deep, calming breaths let her conceal her investigation.

Oh God…he smells amazing!Deep and woodsy and—something brushed her cheek. She opened the eyes she didn’t know she’d closed. The curved headrest saved her from utter mortification after she’d leaned toward him. She stole a glance with her peripheral vision, hoping he hadn’t noticed. His attention was on themagazine in his lap, but he might have been watching her out of the corner of his eye. Shifting as far over as possible in her seat, she feigned interest in the view out the window while listening to the flight attendants explain what to do if they were facing imminent demise.

She needed to focus on something else. She undid the low bun she always wore for flights. Running her fingers through her blown-out hair, she twisted it back into place, then ended up knocking an earbud loose. Karim was unwrapping a piece of gum and offered her one.

“I hate having to pop my ears later,” he said.

“Thanks. I hate that too.” She focused on the explosion of gooey mint across her tongue as the engines roared. His eyes were shut, so she didn’t have to hide the fight to slow her breathing as the plane left the ground. She chewed and chewed and chewed, trying to get back to a calm place. The grating whine of the wheels coming up into the body of the aircraft sent a flash of thick moisture over her skin and she had to send her mind in a different direction.

“I don’t understand your priorities,” her mother had sighed on the phone the previous night. “Things haven’t been easy for me.”

The same call, the same words, the same guilt, every time.

“It’s a thankless job, being a parent. Especially when you’re on your own.”

What do I have to do for it to be enough? Do I have to thank her for raising me every time we talk?

“It’s not like he died on purpose,” Isadora had said, as always.

Her mother continued, unhearing or uncaring, as always.

“You don’t understand my pain. I don’t think you’ll ever understand.”

How could I understand? He was just my dad. It’s not like his death hurt me too.

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