Page 20 of Daddy's Game

“What’s wrong with it?” Brock asked. Not defensively, more like he really wanted to know.

“I’m allergic to pecans.”

“Oh.” He turned to the server—his jet had its own flight attendants—and motioned toward the kitchen. “Would you take this back and get one without pecans, please?”

Brock turned back to me as the salad went away.

“Do you have any other food allergies?” he asked.

“Um, no,” I said. “Although I don’t much care for cilantro or cucumbers. Just the smell of those things makes me nauseous.”

Brock nodded firmly, and I could see him filing away the information for the future.

“I won’t make this mistake again. Sorry, Grace.”

I appreciated the extra care he showed me, and my anxiety faded before a warm, bubbly feeling in my stomach. The salad returned, this time sans pecans. I drizzled the red dressing over the top in a spiral pattern and then dug in for my first bite. The relative bitterness of the arugula mingled with the saltiness of the cheese and the sweetness of the dressing perfectly. I found myself devouring the salad course.

Next came a thin, watery fish soup with green onion slices curling on its steaming surface. The soup proved the perfect follow up to the salad, its savory notes both satisfying and whetting my appetite for the main course.

When the lobster came out, I started laughing.

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“How so?” Brock asked. “This is how I always eat.”

I didn’t doubt that was true.

After dinner, we sipped wine until the plane began to taxi down the runway. We fastened our seat belts as the plane accelerated down the strip. Its nose lifted into the air, and my belly bottomed out as we sailed into the darkening evening sky.

“Is it your first time flying?” Brock asked as I nervously fidgeted in my seat.

“No, but on a small plane I guess you feel the changes more intensely.”

He took my hand and squeezed it reassuringly. I squeezed back, glad to have the support.

Then the plane evened out. Without the sensation of acceleration or changing pitch, it almost felt like we were standing still, so long as I didn’t look out the window.

We talked a little bit, mostly about flying and aeronautics. Neither of us was an expert, but I still enjoyed it. We sort of shadow boxed around the matter at hand, though. Namely, the powerful magnetic pull we felt toward each other.

I blamed the wine for feeling giddy, but I didn’t even finish the first glass. The truth was, I just liked being with Brock. After a couple of hours, I knew that I had to make a choice. Either go to sleep, or wind up kissing him.

I opted for the former. With all that was happening, and my incredibly long day, I felt overwhelmed by the mere idea of a lip lock. I didn’t exactly feel romantic at the moment, I felt…cozy.

Brock noticed my only-partly theatrical yawn, and then rose from his seat. He led me back through a curtained off area to a fully stocked bedroom.

“You can rest here,” he said. “It will be about four and a half hours before we land in Paris.”

“You aren’t going to sleep?” As soon as I asked the question, I kicked myself because it sounded like innuendo…or an invitation. Maybe it was a little of both, even if I hadn't planned it to come out that way.

His eyes shone as he shook his head.

“No, I have some calls to make, some business to attend to. I’ll be working remotely for most of the flight.”

“Oh, okay.”

I wished I didn’t sound so damn disappointed. I changed out of my clothes into the leggings and shirt, hung my bra carefully on the edge of the bedframe, and laid down on a mattress so comfortable I had no right not to fall asleep immediately.

Of course, as much as my body wanted sleep, my mind just had to remain aware and active. I tossed and turned, though the mattress was far from uncomfortable. It took me a while to realize what was going on.

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