Page 93 of Freckles

“Not until I know if it’s going to come straight back up again when we’re in the air.”

Reaching for my hand, he squeezes it tight, giving another chuckle. “I can’t believe you’ve never flown. Do you have car sickness? Train? Bus?” I shake my head to each. “Then you’re unlikely to be affected. Most people get motion sickness, or they don’t. The only difference is the degree.”

“Hm. So you say.”

“Starve if you want. I won’t force you.” His fingers gently spread across my nape. “Into eating, anyway.”

My stomach shrinks under the searing heat of his gaze, and I shift on the seat, crossing my legs then immediately uncrossing them as the friction makes everything worse.

“What about a drink?”

“At nine in the—”

“Coffee or tea is what I meant.” He nods at the machines on the far bench.

I move to the counter, figuring out the multitude of controls over the course of three increasingly fancy beverages.

“Here,” I say, handing him one. “This is a mocha latte with a shot of vanilla and dusted with freshly ground cinnamon.”

He takes a mouthful, winces, and hands it back to me. “In case it ever crops up again, long, black, no sugar.”

“Ugh.” I happily accept the return, sipping the different varieties until my nervous system twitches.

A man dressed in a flawless black suit approaches. “Mr Tana? Your plane is ready to board.”

My stomach lurches but Kincaid grabs hold of my hand, holding it tight as we walk along a carpeted hallway and out onto the tarmac. I shrink against his side as a turbo-prop jet farther along the boarding gates roars into life.

“Is it always this noisy?”

“Outside? Yes. Inside the plane, you won’t notice it nearly as much.”

He waves me ahead of him up the steep steps, opening into a subtle cream interior, including the buttery soft leather seats.

“Can I fetch you something to drink?” a hostess asks, waving me into a window seat while Kincaid takes the one alongside.

The coffee rests uneasy in my stomach, and I decline, curling on the wide seat and gazing at the people moving purposefully on the ground.

Kincaid shows me how the seat buckles work, then reaches into a side compartment, holding out a bag. “Just in case.”

I wrinkle my nose, laughing as I put it on the armrest beside me. Better safe than sorry.

While the hostess talks me through the safety instructions, the plane taxis into position. Each unexpected bump makes me grab the armrest. Then the engines really fire, and I’m thrust back in my seat as it accelerates towards take off.

The ground falls away beneath us and I can’t get over the sight. Sure, I’ve seen it on tv and movies, but the reality is far different. It’s weird to watch people become as tiny as ants, their cars smaller than the metal replicas I used to roll across the floor at kindergarten.

“How long does it take?” I ask, finally turning away from the view to find Kincaid staring at my face with a similar focus.

“Just over an hour.” He smiles, nodding at the bag. “Do you think you still need it?”

“It’s now my emotional support sick bag,” I joke, refusing to relinquish it until the journey nears its end and we’re buckling up for the descent.

“I miss it already,” I say as we come to a stop, stretching our legs out while we wait for the hostess to open the door. “Do you often travel like this?”

“Only sometimes. My uncle sends it all over the world, so it’s only luck or a long lead-time when I get to use it.”

His uncle. I tense at the thought I’ll soon meet the man behind half of Kincaid’s early threats.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, reading my mind again. “Nothing bad will happen.” He waits a beat. “Not in public.”

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