Page 22 of No More Billionaires

“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Overstreet? And something for your companion?”

The flight attendant beamed down at us, well, at Larson, anyway. Her eyes never left his face. Who could blame her? It took all my self-control not to stare at him eight hours a day.

He turned to me. “Want something, Kenley?”

“Coffee?”

“A coffee and a sparkling water, please,” Larson told the woman in a business-like tone.

She moved off to serve our beverage needs while the other passengers began boarding the plane behind us. I was suddenly aware of my close proximity to Larson in the small first-class cabin. So far it was empty except for the two of us.

“So…” Larson shifted his body to face me. His eyes looked extra-dazzling in the morning light streaming through the open window. “It’s an hour flight. Want to tell me your life story?”

I hesitated, already dismayed. This was exactly what I’d wanted to avoid—personal conversation, becoming friends, fixating on his perfect eye color.

Why didn’t I take my book out of my carry-on?

Because I’d been rattled. And now I was stuck talking to him, inches apart.

Okay, regroup here.I couldn’t ignore him, but I wasn’t going to reveal myself to him either.

I laughed, sounding nervous even to my own ears. “Sorry—there’s not an hour’s worth of material there. I grew up in Alpharetta, went to the University of Georgia. I have a younger sister. I worked at a station in Peachtree Valley for two years before moving back to Atlanta and starting at WNN.”

I shrugged, hoping the line of questioning would stop there.

Maybe Larson would tell me where he went to college, what he majored in, and then start reading his own book, and we could fly in pleasant, impersonal silence all the way to Nashville.

“And you really like it there.” It wasn’t a question, more an observation on his part, but it still felt like he wanted an answer.

My response was edged with caution. “Yes. Why? Don’t you?”

“Oh sure.” He nodded, wearing an expression that said he was more interested in my assessment of the place than his own. “It’s just—not that many people smile all day at work.”

“I smile? All day?”

That was news to me. And how would he know? He had to be at least as busy working as I was.

How did he have time to keep track of my facial expressions during the workday? I didn’t ask.

Instead, I giggled, embarrassed. “Does that make me some kind of ghoul? I mean, we cover a lot of tragedies.”

“No. No—I mean it’s a good thing. I guessallday was overstating it. You just smile a lot—when you’re talking with Deb, when you’re calling and setting up interviews, when you talk to the editors. It’s… nice. You’re nice to people. And you have a good smile.”

His last statement was punctuated with one of his own hormone-scrambling grins.

My face heated instantly. “Oh. Well, I like my job, I guess.”

Lame. Lame, lame, lame.

But the perfect response, all things considered. Maybe if Larson found my conversation boring, he would stop trying to get to know me.

I turned toward the tiny oblong airplane window, discovering a new fascination for the process of professional luggage loading.

Willing my heart rate to slow, I watched the mini-truck make its way across the tarmac and two guys in bright coveralls jump off and start hefting bags onto a belt.

Larson was silent for a minute, giving me hope that he had, indeed, declared me too dull even for airplane conversation. But my hope was crushed by that achingly smooth voice.

“And you were engaged?” he asked.

---