Who am I kidding? I am desperate. I haven’t seen a dick in over a year.
I tap on The Proposal. I’ll swap one fantasy for another. I’ve always dreamed of having Ryan Reynolds as my personal assistant. The movie begins, and I smile at the screen. I love this movie. No matter how many times I watch it, I always laugh. Gammy is my favorite.
“You’re watching a romance?” he asks.
“A rom-com,” I reply. For God’s sake, this guy is nosy.
He smirks as if he’s better than me.
“More champagne?” the flight attendant asks.
Blue Eyes looks over at me. “Here’s your chance to order for us.”
I stare at him flatly; all right, he’s beginning to piss me off now. “We’ll have two, please.”
“What do you like about rom-coms?” he asks as he keeps his eyes on the screen in front of him.
“Men who don’t talk during movies,” I whisper into my champagne glass.
He smiles broadly to himself.
“What do you like about . . .” I pause because I don’t even know what Lincoln is about. “Political films?” I ask. “The fact that they’re boring as all hell?”
“I just like true stories, regardless of what they are.”
“So do I,” I reply. “That’s why I like romance. Love is true.”
He chuckles into his glass as if amused.
I glance over at him. “What does that mean?”
“Rom-coms are as far from reality as you can get. I bet you’re the type who reads trashy romance novels too.”
I stare at him flatly. I think I hate this man. “I am, actually . . . and if you must know, I’m watching Magic Mike XXL after this so I can watch gorgeous men take their clothes off.” I sip my champagne in annoyance. “And I’ll smile through the whole damn thing, regardless of your snooty judgment.”
He laughs out loud, and it’s deep and strong and does things to my stomach.
I put my headphones back on and pretend to focus on my screen. I can’t, though, because I just totally embarrassed myself, and I can feel myself blushing.
Stop talking.
Two hours later, I sit and stare out the window. My movie is over, but his scent is not. It’s surrounding me, taunting me with things that I shouldn’t be thinking about.
How does he smell so good?
Unsure what to do without seeming awkward, I decide I’ll take a nap, try to sleep through the next few hours, but first I need to go to the bathroom. I stand. “Excuse me.”
He moves his legs a little but not enough for me to fit through, and I have to lean over him to get past. I stumble and fall and put my hand on his thigh; it’s large and hard to my touch. “I’m so sorry,” I stammer, embarrassed.
“That’s fine.” He smirks up at me. “More than fine.”
I stare at him for a moment. Huh?
“There’s a method to my madness.”
I frown. What does that mean? I make my way past him and go to the bathroom, and then I walk around and stretch my legs a little as I ponder that statement. I’m stumped—I’ve got nothing. “What did you mean by that?” I ask as I fall back into my seat.
“Nothing.”
“Did you give me the window seat so I would have to climb over you?”
He tilts his head to the side. “No, I gave you the window seat because you wanted it. Climbing over me was just an added bonus.”
I stare at him as I struggle to respond. Am I imagining this? Older rich guys don’t usually speak to me like this . . . at all. “Are you flirting with me, Jim?” I ask.
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I don’t know. Am I?”
“I asked you first, and don’t answer my question with a question.”
He smirks as he turns his attention back to the television screen. “This is probably where you should start flirting back . . . Emily.”
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I try to hide my stupid smile. “I don’t flirt. I either want a man or I don’t,” I announce.
“Is that so?” he says as if fascinated. “And how long after you meet a man do you make that decision?”
“Instantaneously,” I lie. That’s not true, but I’ll pretend. Faking confidence is my superpower.
“Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her.
“Of course, sir.”
His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?”