Page 2 of The Widower's Girlfriend
Men who make a living as widowers can’t be seen chasing after women.
Career suicide.
Plus, I’m not interested in a young woman, pretty as she may be, who hasn’t been tested by life like I had. Depth of character and maturity were high on my list of character traits in an acceptable woman. This lady? She couldn’t possibly yet possess them.
A loud thunk, followed by a commotion, breaks into my thoughts. I spin around and poke my head out into the aisle, seeing the same woman grappling with her oversized handbag, the one that’s currently on the ground and not in the overhead like it’s supposed to be. Several bystanders have offered their help, wanting to get the deadly weapon into the overhead bin before she bumbles it again.
The woman is a walking disaster. A bark of laughter escapes before I can muffle it, the sound echoing down the aisle. Her head swivels and she sees me staring at her, a wide grin on my face. She ducks her head and sits down, swallowed by rows of packed seating behind me.
I settle back into my seat and chuckle. I may not have welcomed this early flight, but the joy of watching her navigate an airport like a grown-up was well worth the early alarm. Once we’re airborne, I abandon all thoughts of meditating and get out my laptop instead. I need to ground myself in my message and remember why I’m here on this plane: to help people get through the grieving process.
Definitely not to flirt with gorgeous young women.
2
Jemma
It’s like I have butter for hands. Or perhaps just the worst luck in all of southern California. I don’t even want to be here, or spend the money to travel to Colorado, or be inadvertently entertaining the entire plane as I make a fool of myself. This is why I work with kids. They bumble things all the time. My behavior is normal to them.
Clearly it’s not normal to the tall gorgeous man who’s been front and center to all my mishaps this morning. The one that just laughed at me from his cushy seat in first class.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m still single.
At least, according to my mother and my big brother. They’ve tried to help me with my klutzy ways over the years, to no avail, as I’m sure everyone could see. My mother laments my two left feet, going so far as to sign me up for ballet in my younger years to work on my gracefulness. I was the only kid in history to get kicked out of that ballet company. Even though I said I was sorry a million times, the teacher didn’t find a broken nose a forgivable offense. My mom couldn’t have afforded the classes for very long anyway, so as far as I could see it, I was simply saving her hard-earned money.
But there is a part of me that really wants a companion. Someone who will overlook my daily foibles and love me for who I am. Where my mother and brother are always trying to change me, my forever love would embrace my clumsiness as an irreplaceable character quirk. That, and he’d work just as hard as me to build a life for us and our children.
Which is why I shouldn’t be sitting here fanning myself over Mr. High and Mighty in first class. I’m sure he wouldn’t recognize hard work if it smacked him in the face.
“Might consider a new bag...” I mutter under my breath.Thanks, genius.It never occurred to me that I owned a suitcase that had seen better days.Unfortunately, some of us have to pull extra shifts just to pay for inflated housing costs in southern California and we don’t have money left over for nice things like bags that actually have working wheels or handles that stay attached to the darn bag.
“Miss?”
I pull myself out of my musings and see a flight attendant waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t even hear. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Her smile freezes, locked onto her face like her job depends on it. “What would you like to drink?”
“Oh! Um, coffee, please.”
She shuffles down the aisle collecting orders while I pull out my latest romance novel. I don’t have many indulgences, having just become a physician’s assistant a little over a year ago. I have student loans to pay alongside those housing costs. No running home to live with Mom going on here; I’m determined to make it on my own. But romance novels are a must and I save up my pennies for the really good ones in paperback.
Lifting the book to my nose, I take a good whiff. There’s nothing like the scent of paper and ink to warm me up inside on a chilly day. And nothing says vacation like a new paperback, am I right?
The man next to me shifts away and gives me a weird look. Guess he doesn’t appreciate a good happy ever after like I do. Ignoring him, I dive into my romance, transported to a Hawaiian island with a sassy heroine and an impossibly rich and handsome man the more words I read. An elbow jab pulls me back to the airplane hurtling through the skies. The flight attendant is holding a cup of coffee, waiting for me to take it from her.
The steam is drifting out of the cup and luring me in. “Thank you,” I tell her sweetly. Coffee and a good book. Now there’s true paradise.
I took up pleasure reading to take my mind off stressful things going on in my life, starting in college. At any time, I can open a book and get lost in a different world. A good book is particularly helpful when a patient of mine dies. Considering I work in a pediatric cancer hospital, that happens more often than I ever like to think about. Each little person I work with takes up a section of my heart, ripping it in two should they not overcome the disease. Nothing can make a child’s death easier, so I escape.
The heroine’s sass reaches a level even the muscled hero can’t take and they’ve momentarily broken up by the time I hear the captain’s voice come on overhead, telling us to stow our belongings and fasten our seatbelt. Slapping the book closed, I take one last gulp of coffee, getting a mouthful of cold liquid and coffee grounds. I grimace, looking to my left at the sleeping guy blocking my exit out of the row. The flight attendant is checking we all have our seatbelt on. Nothing to do but swallow it, hoping the extra caffeine gives me the jolt I need to face my old friends when we land.
Everyone stands in a rush when the ding sounds, nearly trampling each other to get our bags out of the overhead bins. Then we wait. And wait some more. By the time I make it off the plane, my nerves are frazzled and I wonder for the hundredth time why I agreed to go on this trip with friends from high school who I haven’t even remained close with. I get two weeks’ vacation a year. Why did I agree to spend a week of it with them?
“Excuse me, which baggage claim area is States Airlines?” I went to the bathroom and then came out not seeing anyone from my flight. I’m also severely turned around in this unfamiliar airport. The bored attendant points down to the right so I nod my thanks and make my way to the round belts in that area.
I spot the handsome man from earlier standing by a belt with his phone out, reading from the screen like he’s Mr. Important. The red light above the carousel starts flashing and a warning buzz lets us all know it’s about to start spewing out bags.
The first bag down the shoot and onto the belt is mine.
