“I may not even go. I’m leaning toward ‘no’ at this point.” I glanced up to check Momma’s expression and got some perverse satisfaction from the look of disapproval I read there.
She recovered quickly. “Well, maybe we can arrange for Cinda to take a tour of WNN soon—you’d like to, wouldn’t you, sweetie? You’re interested in that TV engineering stuff.” She directed a smile at my sister then turned a challenging expression to me. “Just because you’ve decided you can’t get a quality man like Larson Overstreet, it doesn’t mean your sister has to give up on herself, too. I’d bet he’d love to meet her.”
“Mom,” Cinda barked, her voice a sharp blend of offense and disbelief.
I shot to my feet. My fork clattered on the china dishware Momma always insisted on using. “I’ve had enough. Thanks for dinner.”
Walking stiffly to the kitchen, I scraped my plateful of food into the sink disposal. Cinda came up right behind me and dumped her plate as well.
“The funny thing is she thinks she’s motivating you,” she grumbled.
“She is motivating me—to move out.”
I slammed my fork into the dishwasher basket but found enough self-control to place the china plate gently between the rack guides.
“I’m so mad at myself for quitting my anchoring job in Peachtree Valley. I was actually happy living on my own, choosing my own meals, answering only to myself. Of course I did miss you.”
Cinda scraped her own plate clean and put it into the dishwasher. “You know what—you should get the promotion just to spite her. Then you can move out and take me with you. For God’s sake, take me with you, please.”
She giggled and called back into the dining room, “Kenley and I are going to the gym. We’ll be out for a while.” Giving me a shoulder nudge, she whispered, “Come on. Chik-Fil-A?”
“Oh yes. I may order one of everything on the menu—with extra waffle fries. Let’s go.”
Eight
Life Story
“Delta Airlines Flight 785 to Nashville is now boarding. We’d like to welcome our first-class passengers at this time.”
Larson stood and stretched as the squawky announcement ended, extending his arms above his head to their full impressive wingspan and tilting his head back with a silent yawn. Then he lifted his carry-on bag and grabbed the extending handle of mine, as if ready to take them both on board.
“What are you doing?” I rose from the low airport chair and reached for my bag’s handle, reclaiming it from his apparently instinctive chivalry. “We still have a while before it’s our turn.”
“Oh—they had a few first-class seats available when I checked us in—we’re on the same reservation—I just upgraded us both. Might as well be comfortable. It’s bad enough getting up this early.”
Stifling another yawn, he turned and walked toward the waiting gate agent.
I blew a straggling section of hair out of my face and followed him. What choice did I have, really? But I was annoyed.
It was such a Mark move. Of course he couldn’t fly with the regular people. They might blow their regular-people-germs on him or something.
I marched over to the short boarding line and handed the agent my upgraded boarding pass. Which I’d known nothing about. Frowning, I followed Larson down the jet bridge and onto the plane.
It’s okay. It’s okay. Nothing he does has any effect on you.
My new mantra—my policy from now on with Larson. He was a nice guy, we were co-workers, end of story. It was the policy that was going to get me a promotion and restore my independence and privacy.
Cinda had meant her “move out and take me with you” comment as a joke, but it had really sunk in and grabbed hold of me that night.
Once I’d started thinking about it, I hadn’t been able to sleep, filled with a desperate desire for exactly that—my own apartment in Atlanta with Cinda as my roommate—I’d find one close to the Georgia Tech campus so she could walk or bike to class.
It would put me much closer to the WNN headquarters and cut down on my horrendous commute, and downtown had to be a hotbed of cute, single working guys, right?
Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough for me but moving out would have to wait for a while.
Cinda couldn’t afford to pay any rent, of course, which was fine. I would get the promotion—I had to get the promotion—and the two of us could get out from under Momma’s manicured thumb and her never-ending stream of bizarre advice.
That’s why I was here this morning. I had to prove I was ready for a more responsible, better-paying position as an associate producer at WNN. If it could be on a different show, even better.
That meant doing a great job on this sweeps story and anything else they threw my way. It meant saying “yes.”
And surviving this trip with Larson.
He stowed his bag in the overhead compartment then reached for mine.
“I got it. Thanks, anyway.” Huffing with the effort, I lifted my heavy bag and slid it in beside his leather case.
Larson watched me struggle, a look of amusement crossing his face. “Window or aisle?”
“Oh—I…” I looked down at his long legs. “Window, I guess.”
“Great. I like the aisle. More leg room.” He smiled widely, waiting as I took my seat then sliding in beside me.
I did not return his smile. “You could have told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That you were changing my seat.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to sit back there? I just thought if a better seat’s available, why not take it—they’re just going to be here empty otherwise—and you know… leg room?”
He truly looked confused, as if he couldn’t fathom why anyone would ever choose to sit in coach. Maybe he couldn’t. First class was probably just a given in his life.
To him, the thought of being unable to afford a first-class ticket was probably like someone saying they didn’t have enough money for a soft drink from the vending machine at work.
Must be nice to be able to buy your way out of uncomfortable situations.
I smirked. “Never mind. It’s fine. I just hope we don’t get in trouble for the higher travel expenses.”
Mr. Entitled probably hadn’t even considered that. On second thought, the WNN powers-that-be probably wouldn’t deny the Golden Boy whatever he deemed necessary for his traveling comfort.
Larson shook his head. “Oh—I’m paying for it. I wouldn’t expense an upgrade.”
Okay, so, not so entitled. Whatever.
“Well, I’m going to pay you back then.” I leaned back into my plush, wide seat. “It is pretty comfortable up here,” I admitted.
“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Overstreet? And something for your companion?”
The flight attendant beamed down at us, well, at Larson, anyway. Her eyes never left his face. Who could blame her? It took all my self-control not to stare at him eight hours a day.
He turned to me. “Want something, Kenley?”
“Coffee?”
“A coffee and a sparkling water, please,” Larson told the woman in a business-like tone.