I shuffle forward with the line as it moves.
Maybe it’s unhealthy to adopt a phrase so quickly from a stranger. But it’s a good sentiment. And it’s along the lines of my this moment mantra. So, I don’t really see the harm. And it’s not like I’m going to scratch Dominic’s name into my bedroom wall when I get home.
Dominic. Even his name is hot.
I scan my ticket, and the woman at the gate tells me to have a good flight.
Then, for the eighteenth time, I confirm where I’m sitting. Row three, by the window.
I find the window preferable because I like to prop my head against the wall and nap. But I bet the aisle person is already sitting down, so I’ll have to ask them to get up. Which I don’t want to do. But it’s not like it’s the end of the world.
I make my way down the Jetway, closer to the plane, wondering if I’ll see Dominic. Wondering if I should say hi if and when I do. Wondering if I’ll ever just be normal and figure out how to play it cool.
“Good evening.” One of the airline attendants greets me as I step over the little gap and onto the plane.
“Hello.” I smile back.
There’s a large man ahead of me, so I can’t see beyond the row I’m next to.
I try to make my glances look casual as I check the passengers, but none of them are him.
None of them have those broad shoulders. None of them have that short dark hair I want to run my hands over so I can feel the ends tickle against my palms. None of them have those blue eyes that sparkle with secrets.
Dominic said he’s forty-one. But he feels older. Not older in an old man way, but in an experience way. In a he’s lived a full life kind of way.
But maybe that’s just the tattoos.
And damn, those tattoos.
I resist fanning myself but just barely.
The man ahead of me moves forward, and I look at row three.
At my row.
And at Dominic.
The edge of his mouth lifts. “Tell me you’re sitting next to me.”
I do my best to keep a neutral expression on my face. “I’m sitting next to you.”
Dom slowly stands, keeping his eyes on me.
He has to duck to avoid the overhead storage, then he sidles into the aisle and straightens.
We stay like that for a beat. Chest to chest. And I watch his nostrils flare, as if he’s holding something back and it’s costing him. Then he swallows and moves out of the way, allowing me to scoot into our row.
My skirt catches on the armrest, flashing a bit of thigh, and I reach down to free myself.
When I make it to the window seat, I slip my backpack off and shift it so it’s on my lap when I sit down.
“Want that up here?” Dom asks.
I look up and see he’s still standing in the aisle. But now his hands are up, resting on the overhead bin.
The position flares his unbuttoned suit jacket out and stretches his white shirt across his torso. And sweet baby Jesus, those are definitely tattoos covering his body.
Lord, help me. This is going to be the best and worst flight ever.
It’ll be like sitting in front of a giant cheesecake but knowing you aren’t allowed to take a bite.
“Angel.”
My eyes snap up to meet his, and the blush that had finally faded from my cheeks comes roaring back to life. Because he just caught me ogling him.
I bite my lip, but it doesn’t stop the guilty look on my face.
Dom lifts an eyebrow, and I lift a shoulder.
It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s attractive.
In retaliation, he slowly lowers his eyes from my face, down my neck, over my ample cleavage, and down my body to where my skirt is riding up above my knees.
When his eyes move back up to meet mine, it’s my turn to lift a brow. Copying me copying him, Dom lifts a shoulder before dropping his arms back to his sides.
Finally, I remember the question he asked me about putting my bag up.
“You can sit down. I’ll put it under the seat. Wouldn’t want someone to try and steal my new fancy bag.” To punctuate my statement, I shove it to the floor and use my toes to push it forward.
But I’m not used to these spacious first-class seats. And my legs don’t reach far enough to push the bag all the way under the seat in front of me.
Dom lowers himself into his seat with a chuckle, then leans into my space, reaching down between my still-extended feet and pushing my backpack the rest of the way forward.
“Shorty,” he murmurs as he leans back. But he doesn’t lean straight back. Doesn’t take the shortest path. He stays leaned my way, the back of his hand brushing against my bare knee.