Page 13 of Blindsided
Kane has somehow slipped into the empty seat next to mine while his friends were distracted by the drink service. Up close, his eyes are an unsettling shade of blue—too bright, too perceptive despite the alcohol clouding them. A funny feeling hits my stomach as my eyes catch on the dark ink sprawling across his knuckles, snaking up his forearms in elaborate patterns. Heavy silver rings glint on three fingers, one with what appears to be a Celtic knot. This man is trouble.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, clutching my imaginary pearls on my chest.
“Being a good Samaritan,” he says, his Irish accent more pronounced up close. “You look like you’ve hada day from hell.”
“Kane!” Declan has noticed his escape and is half-risen from his seat, murder in his eyes.
Kane ignores him, focusing entirely on me. “Whatever he did, he’s not worth it.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“The guy. The one who made you cry since leaving Pearson airport. We are clear across the Atlantic, and you’re still crying. He ain’t worth your tears.” He leans closer, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he lowers his voice. “Trust me, I know worthless men. I am one.”
Despite everything, a startled laugh escapes me. “That’s your comforting line?I’m worthless too?”
He grins, a lopsided, charming thing that probably works wonders on women who haven’t just discovered their husband sleeping with their sister. “Honesty’s all I’ve got going for me at the moment.”
The flight attendant arrives with our waters, eyeing Kane suspiciously. “Sir, I believe your assigned seat is across the aisle.”
“Just comforting a fellow passenger,” he says smoothly. “Turbulence has her nervous.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, not wanting to get drawn further into whatever this is. “He was just leaving.”
Kane looks wounded, but before he can protest,Declan and the other man appear beside our seats.
“Sorry about our friend,” the longer dark-haired one says, grabbing Kane’s arm. “Rory Hennessey,” he introduces himself with a nod. “And this is Declan. We’re taking his idiot cousin to Ireland for... family business.”
“Family intervention, more like,” Declan mutters, yanking Kane to his feet.
“I was just being nice,” Kane protests as they drag him away. “Unlike some people, I notice when someone’s in pain.”
His words hit unexpectedly hard. I’ve spent the last five years with a man who never noticed—or never cared—when I was hurting. Who made me feel invisible in my own marriage. And now here’s this drunk stranger who saw my pain from across an airplane aisle.
The two women from their group are watching with expressions caught between amusement and mortification. The petite one—her wheat-colored hair cropped short in a style I suddenly envy—catches my eye and mouths “Sorry” before turning back to her companion.
I should be annoyed at the intrusion, but instead, I feel oddly seen for the first time in ages. Not that I’d ever admit it to the drunken Irishman now being forcibly restrained in his seat across the aisle.
Declan has taken the seat directly next to Kane,effectively blocking any further escape attempts. The woman with auburn hair leans forward, saying something to Kane that makes him scowl. Whatever family business they’re heading to Ireland for, it doesn’t seem like a happy reunion.
I turn back to my window, watching the endless darkness of the Atlantic below. My life has been shattered into pieces, but at least I had some in-flight entertainment. I almost smile at the absurdity of it all.
The plane dips again, the seatbelt sign flashing on as we hit another rough patch. I grip my armrest, breathing deeply through the turbulence.
“Not a good flyer?” a soft voice asks.
I turn to find the petite, plump woman now in the seat beside me, her expression kind but cautious.
“I’m Wren,” she says. “Declan’s wife. I wanted to apologize properly for Kane. He’s... well, he’s Kane.”
“Kori,” I offer, unsure why I’m giving my real name. “And it’s fine. Really.”
Wren studies me with intelligent eyes. “No, it’s not. But that’s not just about Kane, is it?”
I look away, uncomfortable with her perception. “Just having a rough day.”
“Those look like more than rough day tears,” she observes. “More like life-altering catastrophe tears. I’ve cried those before.”
Something about her straightforward manner breaks through my defenses. “My husband’s been sleeping with my sister,” I blurted out, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear that.”
