I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.”
He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“You are.”
“Why am I funny?” I frown.
“This sense of righteousness that you have.”
“Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.”
Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip. “What were you doing in London?”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “I flew over for a friend’s wedding, and to be honest, I wish I hadn’t gone.”
“Why not?”
“My ex was there with his new squeeze, and he was being over-the-top affectionate with her to piss me off.”
“Which worked, obviously,” he adds as he tilts his glass toward me.
“Hmm.” I sip my drink in disgust. “Just a little.”
“What did she look like?”
“Long bleached-blonde hair and huge silicone lips and boobs and eyelashes and fake tan and everything I’m not.”
“Hmm.” He listens intently.
“Like Backseat Barbie on crack.”
He chuckles. “Everyone loves a Backseat Barbie.”
I look over at him in disgust. “This is probably where you should tell me that all men hate Backseat Barbies, Jim. Don’t you know anything about polite plane-conversation etiquette?”
“Obviously not.” He frowns as he considers my statement. “Why would I do that?”
I widen my eyes to accentuate my point. “To be nice.”
“Oh, right.” He frowns as if bracing himself to lie. “Emily . . . all men are repulsed by Backseat Barbies.”
I smile as I tip my glass to him. “Thank you, Jim.”
“Although . . .” He pauses for a moment. “If they give good head . . .”
What the hell?
I snort my champagne up my nose and choke. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear come out of his mouth. “Jim,” I splutter as it sprays everywhere.
He laughs as he grabs his napkins and hands them over, and I wipe the drink dribbling from my chin.
“Men who look like you are not supposed to talk about head.” I cough.
“Why not?” he asks incredulously. “And what do you mean, men who look like me?”
“All serious and stuff.”
He looks at me deadpan. “Define stuff.”
“You know, older, rich, and bossy.”
His eyes dance with delight. “And what gives you the impression that I’m rich and bossy?”
I exhale in an overexaggerated way. “You look rich.”
“How do I?”
“Your fancy watch. The cut of your shirt.” I glance down at his shoes. “I’ve never seen shoes like that before. Where did you even get those?”
“In a shop, Emily.” He looks at his watch. “And I’ll have you know that this watch was a gift from a girlfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “I bet she’s a vegan yoga nut.”
He smirks.
“I know your type of woman.”
“Really.” He leans closer. “Please go on—this character analysis is fascinating.”
I smile as a little voice from my subconscious screams, Stop drinking, fool! “I’m assuming you live in New York.”
“Correct.”
“In an apartment.”
“Affirmative.”
“You probably work at some ritzy company.”
He smiles; he likes this game. “Perhaps.”
“You would have a girlfriend or . . .” I glance down. “You don’t wear a wedding ring . . . so perhaps you cheat on your wife when you travel for work?”
He chuckles. “You really should make a profession out of this. I’m amazed at the accuracy.”
I like this game too; I smile broadly. “What do you think about me?” I ask. “What was your first impression when I walked onto the plane?”
“Well.” He frowns as he considers the question. “Do you want the politically correct version?”
“No. I want the truth.”
“Right . . . well, in that case, I noticed your long legs and the curve of your neck. The dimple in your chin. You are the most attractive woman I’ve seen in a long time, and when you smiled, it brought me to my feet.”