Outrageously in Love by Jen Morris
3
Iswirl the gin around in my glass and breathe a deep sigh of relief.
It’s been a rough night and I desperately need this drink. You see, the thing I didn’t realize as I boarded the flight from Auckland to Houston for the first leg of my journey, is that I’m afraid of flying.
No, not afraid. Terrified.
I should have seen that coming, but I was so focused on how scary the New York part of this trip is that I didn’t even stop to think about the flying part. And once I was on the plane, it was far too late to reconsider. I only made it through the hideous ordeal thanks to the kindly older lady seated beside me, who offered me an Ambien. I didn’t want to take it, because I have a staunch don’t-accept-drugs-from-strangers policy, but I kept thinking of Steph’s suggestion to take more risks. And when we hit an especially bad patch of turbulence and I had to clutch onto the lady’s hand for emotional support—like I’d done during take-off, by the way—I thought fuck it, and accepted the drugs.
But then I slept for twelve straight hours, through breakfast and landing, and was the last one off the plane. By the time I ran through the airport, went through the TSA line and located my terminal, I thought I’d missed my connecting flight. I arrived at the gate, breathless, only to discover the next flight had been delayed, and I now had a couple of hours to catch my breath and prepare for once again launching my body into the sky.
At first, I sat and gnawed on my nails, unable to even think about grabbing a snack because my stomach was all tangled again. But then I thought, what would Harriet 2.0 do? She wouldn’t be sitting with one knee bobbing up and down so much that the whole plastic row of seats shakes and the woman beside her keeps shooting her daggers. No; she’d grab a drink and relax, ready to enjoy her trip to The Big Apple. And not just any drink. She’d probably drink a martini or something super classy.
So here I am, cocktail glass in hand as I sit at a bar near my gate, about to drink a martini. I’ve never tried one before, but here’s to new things, right?
I take a big gulp and wince as it burns all the way down the back of my throat.
Holy hell, this tastes like pure alcohol. It’s like I’m swigging straight from the gin bottle. Why on earth do people drink these?
I glance down at the liquid in the glass. Just as I consider pushing it away, a warm sensation spreads through me and the knot in my middle loosens.
Wow, okay. There might be something to this.
I hold my breath and down the rest of the martini. While I wait for it to work its magic, I rummage in my bag and pull out my compact to check my appearance. Steph talked me into trying the red lipstick and it’s still stuck fast to my lips. As a sign of commitment to my exciting new self, I reapply a thick, glossy coat, before adding some mascara and spritzing myself with perfume. I slide my glasses back on as I hear them calling for my row to board.
The airport sways when I push to my feet. I adjust my cotton jersey dress as I wobble towards the gate, and it occurs to me that perhaps knocking back a martini on an empty stomach wasn’t the best idea. I’m trying to walk in a straight line but I’m not sure it’s working. God, what if they don’t let me on? What if I look like a drunk and they think I’m going to start a riot on board?
No, don’t be silly. They wouldn’t have alcohol at airports if you weren’t supposed to drink. I bet it’s how half of these people can face boarding this death machine.
Besides, I feel quite good now. My limbs are buzzing, my head is warm and fuzzy, and my whole body feels more relaxed. Maybe I’ll make it through this flight with my dignity intact.
I show the attendants my boarding pass, doing my best to stand straight and not give away the fact that the room is swimming around me, then teeter down the gangway to the plane. Once on board, I weave between passengers, giggling. I can’t remember the last time I felt this loose. Turns out Harriet 2.0 is pretty fun!
My seat is by the window, in the very back row. I turn to my right, about to clamber to my spot, and notice there’s someone sitting in the middle seat.
Not just someone. A guy. He must be in his mid-thirties and he’s tall, his long legs awkwardly folded in behind the seat in front. He’s in a pale blue business shirt with a navy colored tie around his neck. His eyes are closed, his head rests back against the seat, and his short, dark hair is a little ruffled. He looks so peaceful, I don’t want to disturb him.
I glance at my seat by the window. I’m quite sure I can squeeze over him.
Hoisting my bag up onto my shoulder, I creep into the row, grabbing hold of the headrest beside his to steady myself. Then I turn and face him, carefully lifting one leg over his lap and hoping he doesn’t open his eyes at this exact moment.
Okay, halfway there.
Ooh, he smells quite nice. What is that? Some kind of aftershave? I lean in closer and inhale the spicy, woody scent, noticing how lush and dark his eyelashes are against the creamy skin of his cheek.
I’m just about to lift my other leg up over him when I lose my balance and fall forward, landing in his lap with a thud.
Shit.
His eyes fly open, his head jerks up, and there we sit: face to face, mere inches apart, me literally straddling his lap as my dress rides up my exposed thighs. Boy, am I glad I shaved my legs.
He stares at me without saying anything, his chocolate-brown eyes wide with surprise. I’m still feeling so out of it with the gin racing through my veins that it takes me a second to react. My body responds first, doubling my heart rate and sending a flurry of butterflies into my abdomen. Before I can say anything, his eyes crease in amusement and he chuckles.
“Well. Hello there.”
His deep American accent rolls over me and my gaze drops to his mouth as it curves into a bewildered smile. When I run my eye along his sharp jawline, a wave of heat rushes up my body, catching me off-guard. It’s such an unfamiliar sensation that I almost don’t recognize it.
Oh. Oh.
“Would you like a hand to your seat?”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, my cheeks flaming as I come to my senses. Here he was, enjoying a quiet moment in the middle of the afternoon, and I go and hurl myself into his lap. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to bother you.” I pick myself up and, with as much grace as possible, hold down my dress as I haul my other leg over him. Then I sink into my seat, pressing my eyes shut in mortification.
So much for making it through the flight with my dignity intact.
He chuckles again. “That’s quite alright.”
Stuffing my bag under the seat in front of me, I try to stop my head from spinning. I busy myself with the safety instructions while the plane fills and we wait to take off, but my pulse is erratic and the images all blur together. No one else joins our row and I can’t bring myself to look at the guy next to me in case I blush all over again. By the time we are heading down the runway, I’m no longer sure if it’s the alcohol that’s making me so light-headed, or something else entirely.
* * *
Once the planeis in the air, I release my vice-like grip on the armrest. At least I didn’t grab the poor guy’s hand during take-off, but that’s little consolation after giving him a lap dance.
I’m still buzzing from my martini but the humiliation has really taken the fun out of it. On the plus side, this whole thing has served as a welcome distraction from flying.
Then, as I’m about to put my earphones in and try to forget it all, I drop them. On the floor. Between this guy and me.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
I look down at the narrow crack between our almost-touching knees and sigh. I don’t want to spend the next three hours sitting here in silence and I’m too wired to read. I was hoping to watch a film.
I sneak a glance out of the corner of my eye and notice the guy beside me has leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.
Right. Good.
Slipping my right hand down between our knees, I lean over, acutely aware that my head is hovering over his crotch as I grope at the floor.
Where are the damn earphones? I could have sworn they were down here…
A muffled laugh comes from above me, just as my hand grasps the cord on the floor. I snatch it up and curl back into my seat, afraid to make eye contact. I might burst into flames.
“Don’t you think we should at least exchange names first?”
Oh God. Why doesn’t my seat come with an ejector button?
“Sorry,” he mumbles, when I don’t respond. “Inappropriate joke.”
I hazard a glance at him and notice his cheeks are crimson. Good to know I’m not the only one finding this situation so awkward.
I summon a smile. “It’s okay. Sorry, I dropped my earphones. And sorry, er, about earlier.”
He smiles back, the color disappearing from his cheeks and his confidence restored. “No problem. It’s not everyday a pretty lady throws herself into my lap.”
I bite my lip and look down at the tangled cord in my hand. Is it my imagination, or is he flirting?
It’s been so long since I’ve flirted. Most of the time I don’t think it’s worth the effort, but when I glance up again into his twinkling eyes, my heart skips a beat. I want to flirt back. Except, I think I’ve forgotten how. Is that possible?
This is so typically me. I have this guy captive for three hours, giving me the sexiest smile, and I have no idea what to say to him. I’m reminded of this game I used to love at my board game club a few years back, where you’d play a card depending on what trait or special power you needed in the moment. Right now, I find myself wishing there was a Flirt Effortlessly With a Hot Guy card I could throw down.
Then I realize something: I might not know what to say to him, but Harriet 2.0 would. And she’d be confident and sexy. She’d probably end up shagging him in the bathroom or something. Ha!
I take a deep breath, put my earphones down, and twist in my seat to face him. “I’m Harriet.”
His smile widens. “Luke. Nice to meet you, Harriet.” He tilts his head. “Is that a New Zealand accent?”
“Yes.” I grin, letting his relaxed manner put me at ease. I’m about to say more but the flight attendant arrives with the drinks trolley. When Luke orders a whiskey, I order one too, and before I can stop him he pays for both. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“You’re welcome,” he says with that disarming smile of his. “I haven’t met many women who like whiskey.”
“I’ve never tried it,” I admit, watching as he pours it over the ice in his plastic cup, then doing the same. “But I like to try new things.” Well, I don’t, of course, but my alter ego does. He doesn’t need to know that there’s a difference.
“What else do you like?”
I think for a minute as I sip the smoky liquid. It’s not bad, actually. Maybe Harriet 2.0 is onto something.
Hmm. What else would she like to do? She’s outgoing, so she’d like adventurous things.
“I love anything that takes me out of my comfort zone or gives me a rush. You know; skydiving, zip-lining, spontaneous road trips, skinny-dipping, trying exotic new foods…” I pause as I rack my brain for more wild examples. My mind lands on the earlier thought I had about this lovely gentleman taking me in the airplane bathroom and my cheeks flush.
I push my glasses up my nose as he contemplates me over his whiskey. I half expect him to burst out laughing at my outrageous lies because, let’s face it, with my bookish looks I don’t seem the type to be throwing myself from an airplane or running naked down a beach.
Instead, he raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Wow. I wish I did more things like that.”
Relief sweeps over me. The whiskey works its way into my veins, relaxing me even more, and I smile. I quite like being this new version of myself. Especially when he looks at me like that.
“So what brings you to New York?”
I falter. I don’t want to tell him I didn’t actually want to come—that I made a snap decision to prove I wasn’t boring and then felt like I couldn’t back out. I think of the reasons everyone else was so excited about me going on this trip. “I’m just coming to explore the city and do some sightseeing.”
“Alone?”
I nod breezily, as if I always travel alone because I’m so independent and worldly and confident.
He looks impressed again as he takes a drink.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I live in Manhattan. I was just in Houston for business.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh…” He hesitates. “I work in entertainment.”
I’m about to ask more when the plane jolts violently. Despite the alcohol coursing through my system, my heart throws itself against my breastbone in fright. I inhale slowly, watching the liquid quiver in my glass as the plane shudders. Somehow, I’m not freaking out. I don’t know if it’s because I’m in Harriet 2.0 mode, or because the whiskey has taken the edge off, but I feel okay. I can do this.
The plane jerks again and there’s a sharp intake of breath beside me. I glance at Luke to find his face is pale and his eyes are pressed shut. His cup wobbles on the tray table in front of him while he grips the armrests tightly, his knuckles white. He looks terrified and there’s a tug in my heart.
Without thinking, I place my cup down and take his hand, squeezing. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his fingers tighten around mine and squeeze back. I let my gaze linger on his face, taking him in properly. His skin is perfectly smooth apart from a tiny round blemish on the upper side of his left cheek that looks like a chicken pox scar. His dark hair is a little longer on top but cut closer on the sides, his jaw filling in with five o’clock shadow. And that mouth: full and soft as he bites down hard on his bottom lip. He really is beautiful. Perhaps if the guys back home looked more like this, I’d be following Steph’s advice more readily.
The plane steadies and he exhales, blinking. Time suspends for a split second as our eyes lock, and it feels like… I’m not sure what. Like there’s electricity or something crackling between us, concentrated in our joined hands. Like neither one of us wants to let go.
God, it’s such an odd situation, being this close to a stranger on a plane when you feel like you could plunge to your death at any moment. So odd, I’m starting to imagine things.
He gives me a sheepish smile as I release his hand. “Thanks. I’m a terrible flier. My ex used to tell me it was pathetic.” His gaze slides away and he shakes his head. “But then, she complained about a lot of things I did.”
I’m surprised to feel a stab of jealousy at the mention of his ex, at the thought of someone else getting to kiss those lips.
Jesus Christ, I’m losing it. I’ve only just met this guy. I never get like this around men. It must be a combination of the stress of flying and the alcohol, not to mention the altitude up here. I need to get a grip.
I tear my gaze from his and force a laugh. “That’s rough. My ex complained I wasn’t pretty enough.” The words tumble out of my mouth and I cringe. Why the hell did I tell him that?
When I look back at him, he’s studying me with a frown. He must be struggling for something to say that doesn’t hurt my feelings.
“Anyway,” I mumble, “tell me about New York. What should I do there?”
He sips his whiskey, listing off some of the tourist spots around the city—Empire State Building, Times Square, Brooklyn Bridge—but then he tells me about some of the less well-known places he prefers, like the bakery that makes the best donuts, and his favorite coffee shop. When he mentions a bookstore called Strand that apparently has eighteen miles of books I nearly swoon into his arms. I think back to the last guy I dated and how lame he thought it was that I spent so much time reading, yet here Luke is, pointing out the best bookstore in the city. I didn’t even ask, but somehow he seems to know to tell me about it, and that, more than anything, makes me revisit the thought of dragging him off to the bathroom and having my way with him.
Well, not me, obviously. I would never do anything as outrageous as that. But my new alter ego certainly would.
“And there’s a great ice cream place on Bleecker Street,” Luke says as he finishes his drink. “They won an award for the best mint chocolate chip.”
I wrinkle my nose. I’ve never understood why people like mint as an ice cream flavor.
“I don’t know if it lives up to the hype,” he admits. “I’ve never tried it. To me, the only place mint belongs is in—”
“Toothpaste,” I finish, nodding.
“Yes!” He grins. “And gum.”
“Agreed. It’s fine in gum and toothpaste, but as an ice cream flavor it’s—”
“Gross.”
“Have you ever tried peppermint tea?” I ask, thinking of when I have to make it at work. The smell makes me gag.
“No.” Luke screws up his face. “That sounds disgusting.”
The flight attendant appears with her trolley at that moment. “Can I get you any more drinks?”
“I’ll take another whiskey, please,” I say, before I can wonder whether it’s a good idea. I’m having too much fun to care.
“Sure thing. And for you, sir?”
I can’t help myself. “He’ll take a pot of peppermint tea.” Luke glances at me, mirth flickering in his eyes, and I have to press my lips together to subdue my grin.
“I’ll take a whiskey,” he amends, speaking to the attendant but watching me. “And do you serve ice cream?”
A laugh shoots from my mouth. I try to cover it with a cough but it’s too late. It doesn’t matter—it was worth it to see Luke’s face light up at my reaction.
“Sorry, no…” We both turn to see the flight attendant looking perplexed as she hands over our drinks.
“Too bad.” Luke pays for the whiskey. The attendant moves on with her trolley and he fixes his attention back on me, a wry smile curling his lips. “You’re trouble.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, giving an innocent shrug. “And you never know, you might have liked it.” My belly flips at his husky laugh, at the way he leans a little bit closer.
Over the next hour Luke and I chat as we sip our drinks, and I marvel at the way it feels almost like we’re old friends. I’ve heard people say they have “chemistry” with someone and thought that was an unusual expression, but for the first time I think I get what they mean. The conversation flows effortlessly, punctuated with laughter, steeped in a sort of kindred familiarity I can’t quite put my finger on. We keep interrupting each other—but in a good way, because we know what the other is going to say.
I think he’s at ease with me too, because he loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt cuffs, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. That’s where the wheels fall off because, fuck, he has delicious forearms. Is that a thing? I’ve never noticed forearms on a guy before because I’m not some kind of weird perve, but these are distracting. They’re muscular, with a light dusting of hair and the faintest lines of his veins. I’m all restless with them on display, right there. It also doesn’t help that every time Luke looks at me his eyes are warm and sparkling, and that we’re sitting so close our arms keep brushing. The whole combination makes me feel electric, like a live wire with nowhere for the current to go.
After a while, he excuses himself for the bathroom, much to my relief. I watch him squeeze his way along the aisle up the plane, all long limbs and height, trying not to bump into anyone.
I stand and shuffle out of our aisle, stretching as I step into the little galley area at the back, behind our seats. There’s a small kitchen counter, an exit door and a bathroom. I didn’t even know all this was back here, and I don’t think any of the other passengers do, either. No one has come back to use the bathroom. Even Luke went further up the plane somewhere.
I’m pleased to have a little space to myself, to shake the build-up of energy from my body. By this stage on the last flight I was antsy and desperate for it to be over, but now I’m disappointed at the thought of landing soon. In fact, this flight has been delightful, even with the turbulence earlier. I can’t believe I’m thinking that, but Luke has distracted me from flying. He could probably distract me from anything, which is an even more absurd thought. The last time I felt this attracted to a guy was… er, never? Perhaps the gods of flying decided to give me a break on this one.
I chuckle to myself as I slip my glasses off and place them on the counter behind me, massaging my temples. My bun is starting to hurt my head as it always does when I have it up for too long. I pull off the hair-tie, letting my brown hair tumble down my back. It’s really long—just below my waist—and a mousy sort of brown, the kind that isn’t shimmering or exotic or anything, it just is. I’ve never given it a great deal of thought, but as I run my hands through it now I wonder if maybe I should dye it or something. The new me would do that.
The more I think about this Harriet 2.0 plan, the more I like it. I feel empowered, like I could do anything. I’ll have to thank Steph for pushing me to try this.
“Wow.” I glance up to see Luke in front of me, his eyes wide. “Your hair.”
I cock my head in confusion. “What?”
“It’s…” he trails off, taking another step closer to me. He shakes his head, a smile building on his lips. “Harriet, whoever told you that you weren’t pretty was way off. You are. You’re beautiful.”
Oh.
There’s a flutter behind my ribcage. Is he serious? No one has called me beautiful before. Once a guy said I was “kind of cute,” but that was years ago. And he was drunk.
I gaze at Luke, with that gorgeous smile on his mouth, and all of a sudden I’m hot everywhere. I just want to reach out and grab—
The plane jerks and Luke’s smile vanishes. He presses his eyes shut again, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other instinctively reaching for mine. But the second he touches me, I lose all rational thought. My body takes over and I push up onto my toes, brushing my lips over his. The electric current inside me sparks, zapping right down through my center.
Wow.
Then I come to my senses and stumble back, grimacing with horror.
Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never done something so brazen in my life.
I open my mouth to apologize, but stop when I see Luke’s face. His eyes are open, and even though the plane is still rocking, that smile is back. He lets go of the counter and grabs me by the waist, pulling me hard up against him, pressing his mouth back onto mine.
Holy shit.
“Is this okay?” he asks against my lips.
My brain is short-circuiting. I can barely reply, I’m so breathless. “Yes,” I manage, kissing him harder.
Oh, yes.