In the Likely Event(3)
CHAPTER TWO
IZZY
Saint Louis
November 2011
“Fifteen A. Fifteen A,” I muttered, scanning the seat numbers as I muddled my way down the crowded aisle of the commuter plane, my carry-on slipping through my clammy hands with every step. Spotting my row, I sighed in relief that the overhead compartment was still empty, then cursed as I realized A was a window seat.
My stomach twisted into a knot. Had I really booked myself by the window? Where I could see every potential disaster coming our way?
Hold up. There was already a guy sitting in the window seat, his head down, only the Saint Louis Blues emblem visible on his hat. Maybe I’d read my ticket wrong.
I made it to my row, stood on my tiptoes, and shoved my carry-on up as far as my arms would extend, aiming for the overhead bin. It made contact with the edge, but the only prayer I had of getting it all the way in was to climb on the seat . . . or grow another six inches.
My hands slipped, and the bright-purple suitcase plummeted toward my face. Before I had time to gasp, a massive hand caught my unruly luggage, stopping it a few inches from my nose.
Holy crap.
“That was close,” a deep voice noted from behind my carry-on. “How about I help you with that?”
“Yes, please,” I answered, scrambling to adjust my hold.
I saw the Blues hat first as the guy somehow managed to twist his body, rise fully to his feet, step into the aisle, and balance my suitcase all in one smooth motion. Impressive.
“Here we go.” He slid the carry-on into the overhead with ease.
“Thanks. I was pretty sure it was going to take me out there for a second.” I smiled, turning my head slightly to look up—and up—at him.
Whuh. He was . . . hot. Like, pull-the-fire-alarm, jaw-dropping levels of hotness. A fine layer of dark scruff covered a square jawline. Even the cut and the purplish bruise that split the right half of his lower lip didn’t detract from his face, because his eyes . . . wow. Just . . . wow. Those crystalline baby blues stole every word out of my head.
And now I was staring, and not the cute, flirty glances Serena would have given him while shamelessly asking for his number and inevitably getting it. No, this was open-mouthed awkward staring that I couldn’t seem to stop.
Close your mouth.
Nope, still staring. Staring. Staring.
“Me too,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
I blinked. “Me too,” what? “I’m sorry?”
His brow knit in confusion. “Me too,” he repeated. “I thought that thing was going to smash you in the face.”
“Right.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, only to remember that I’d pulled it up into a messy bun and therefore had no hair to tuck, which just continued my awkward streak. Awesome. And now my face was on fire, which meant I’d probably turned ten shades of red.
He slid back into his seat, and I realized our exchange had blocked the rest of the flight from boarding.
“Sorry,” I muttered to the next passenger, and ducked into fifteen B. “Funny thing, I could have sworn my ticket said I was in the window.” I lifted the strap of my purse over my head, then unzipped my jacket and wiggled the least amount possible to get out of the thing. At this rate, I’d probably jab Blue Eyes with my elbow and make an even bigger ass of myself.
“Oh shit.” His head swung toward mine, and he winced. “I traded seats with a woman up in seven A so she could sit next to her kid. I bet I took yours by accident.” He reached down for an army-green backpack under the seat in front of him, his shoulders so wide that they brushed my left knee as he leaned forward. “Let’s switch.”
“No!” I blurted.
He stilled, then turned his head slowly to look up at me. “No?”
“I mean, I hate the window. I’m actually really freaked out by flying, so it works better this way.” Crap, I was babbling. “Unless you want the aisle?” I held my breath with hope that he wouldn’t.
He sat back up and shook his head. “No, I’m good here. Freaked out by flying, huh?” There was no mockery in his tone.
“Yep.” Relief sagged my shoulders, and I folded up my jacket, then squished it under the seat in front of me with my purse.
“Why?” he asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
My cheeks turned up the heat a notch. “I’ve always been afraid of flying. There’s something about it that just . . .” I shook my head. “I mean statistically, we’re fine. The incident rate last year was one in 1.3 million, which was up from the year before, when it was one in 1.5 million. But, when you think about how many flights there are, I guess that’s not as bad as driving, since your odds of crashing are one in 103, but still, 828 people died last year, and I don’t want to be one of the 828.” You’re babbling again. I pressed my lips between my teeth and prayed my brain would cut it out.
“Huh.” Two lines appeared between his eyebrows. “Never thought of it that way.”
“I bet flying doesn’t scare you, does it?” This guy looked like nothing in the world scared him.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never flown before, but now that you went over the stats, I’m questioning my choices.”
“Oh God. I’m so sorry.” My hands flew to cover my mouth. “I babble when I get nervous. And I have ADHD. And I didn’t take my medication this morning because I put it out on the counter next to my orange juice, but then Serena drank the juice, and I got sidetracked pouring more, and that pill is probably still sitting there—” I cringed, slamming my eyes shut. A deep breath later, I opened them and found him watching me with raised eyebrows. “Sorry. Add in the fact that I overthink just about everything, and here we are. Babbling.”