I’m mid-text when a message pops up on my screen.
Gretchen
I’m at your gate.
Ten minutes later, I step off the jet-bridge into the crowded gate area. Headphones looped around my neck, I eagerly scan from leftto right. It’s her long black hair I spot first. Her face comes into view as she bounces on her toes to look over and around the other passengers.
Her shoulders dip in relief when I step into her line of vision. Just like when she answered that door eleven days ago, the stupid grin on my face can’t be stopped. The return smile that curls the corner of her lips is less gleeful-delight like mine and more irritated-amusement. Beautiful, all the same.
“Are you always the last person to get off the plane?”
“Yes,” I deadpan.
She pins me with those dark eyes, beguile gleaming at their centers. The urge to scoop her into a hug is so natural, so intense that I almost miss her next words.
“Hmmm. So, is that, like, your superiority complex or something?”
I blink. “My…superiority complex? Wasn’t aware I had one.”
She scoffs. “All men have a superiority complex, Connor.”
A laugh bursts out of me and her almost-smile goes rogue, face bright with joy.
“Do tell how letting everyone ahead of me off the plane equates to a superiority complex,” I say.
“Easy,” she shrugs. “That plane and all the other lowly passengers are mere peasants at your feet. Everyone else files off the plane row by row, you know, as normal people do, whileyousit in your ivory tower of judgment thinking to yourself, ‘these poor people have it all wrong.’ I bet at least half a dozen people offered to let you go in front of them and you just kept your headphones on and pretended not to hear them.”
I purse my lips.
Her brows lift. “I’m right,” she adds.
“I didn’t say that.”
She leans in conspiratorially. “You didn’t have to.”
“Maybe I prefer the comfort of my seat instead of standing shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of sweaty strangers.”
“Airplane seats are not comfortable,” she retorts as she crossesher arms over her chest. I order my gaze to avoid the hint of cleavage that peeks over the neckline of her white tank top.
I lift my hat to run a hand through my hair, stifling another smile. “When you’re six-two sitting in the window seat and the options are”—I hold out one flat palm—“mediocre chair and”—I hold out another palm—“hunchback of Notre Dame, the answer is pretty straightforward.”
Gretchen’s lips fold inward, her own wry smile barely in check. “You see, maybe the window seat was your first mistake.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers when you buy the ticket three hours before take-off.” I lower my head. “My options were limited.”
She takes in a deep breath, releasing it on a heavy sigh. “Right.” She clears her throat and fiddles with the handle of her carry-on. “Well, I’m sorry you got dragged into?—”
“Don’t be sorry,” I say pointedly. “I’m not sorry.”
Her expression sobers as luggage wielding strangers whizz by, streaks of color zigging and zagging in a blur all around us. Our gazes lock. Memories of conversations and touches and kisses materialize in the two feet of space between us. I wonder if her heart pounds as hard as mine does when she looks at me in that way that makes time stand still?
“Excuse me,” a stranger says from my left, breaking our stare.
I move aside to let him pass. A breath later, when I step back into my previous position, the moment’s over.
Gretchen opts for a subject change. “Did Drew tell you anything about what’s going on?”
“Nothing. You?”
