“Wine?” asked the flight attendant.
Emerson took a glass from the tray. “Thank you.” She took a sip, acidulous flavors exploding on her tongue. It was a touch fruity for her personal tastes, but it was free and available. She switched her cellphone off and let her head fall back, eyes closed, on the headrest. Two and a half perfect hours without being bothered by a soul.
“Excuse me, you’re in my seat.”
Emerson opened her eyes with a start. A tall man, looking way too handsome for his own good in a fitted navy suit, stared at her like a rather deliciously imperious Clark Kent with his black hair a little on the long side and most definitely ruffled. He looked down at her through glasses that quite possibly made him even hotter.
“I’m sorry.” Emerson placed her glass down and pulled the ticket out of her purse. “I was upgraded; they gave me a new ticket as I boarded. Perhaps they made a mistake,” she said, wondering why she felt the need to apologize to the ungracious man glaring at her.
She looked at the ticket, then up again at the numbers above the row of seats. 3B. The aisle seat. She was in the right spot. “There must be some mistake,” she said, showing him her ticket.
The man growled. It was low and quiet, but it was most definitely a growl. “I so don’t need this today,” he muttered under his breath, before leaning over her to press the buzzer for the flight attendant.
In spite of his rude behavior, he smelled delicious. Nothing floral. Decidedly woodsy. And the move revealed a shirt that fit his taut frame as if it had been painted on.
“Are you sure you aren’t in A?” Emerson offered quietly, pointing toward the empty seat next to her, not that the jerk was worth any of her time. But other passengers were looking, and she’d rather fix the problem than continue to cause a scene.
“I never sit by the window,” he said, as if that explained everything.
A flight attendant arrived and smiled so hard Emerson’s jaw ached at the sight. Perhaps, Emerson thought, she was the only one immune to Mr. Grumpy’s style of charm. “How can I help?”
Mr. Grumpy explained. Emerson offered her ticket as proof.
“I see the problem,” said the flight attendant, taking a look at both their tickets before placing her hand on Mr. Grumpy’s arm. “You’ve both been given the same seat. It’ll just be a moment while I figure this out. Please, take a seat.”
Mr. Grumpy looked at her expectantly. Emerson scoffed. He wanted her to move. And while she half expected she’d have to move back to the economy cabin any moment, she wasn’t going to make this easy for some smooth-talking idiot. Even if he did have the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
“It would make more sense for you to move over,” Mr. Grumpy said.
Emerson tucked her legs up against the seat. “There’s plenty of room for you to get by.”
“I can’t work if I sit by the window, too much light on my laptop screen,” he said, pointedly.
“What, so a woman on a plane can’t possibly be wanting to work because…?” She let the words hang.
Mr. Grumpy’s jaw twitched, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of his dimple. “That wasn’t what I was implying.”
“Oh, so you just want it to be more convenient for you to work than me?” Damn. She hadn’t intended to work, but if she ended up staying in the aisle seat and not back in 34E, she would need to work just to make her point.
Now it was Mr. Grumpy’s turn to scoff. His glacial eyes looked toward her glass of wine for a moment, then back at Emerson. “I can only imagine how focused you’ll be.”
Standing, she quickly realized that there was still a good six inches in height between them. “Are you honestly trying to shame me and my ability to work because of one minuscule glass of wine, taken because I happen to be terrified of flying? Which, by the way, is the reason I don’t want to sit next to the goddamn window. First, you get mad because of an administrative error that I did not cause. Then, you invade my personal space to call for assistance…assistance you could have gained had you walked ten feet to the cabin crew. Judgmental and rude is really not a good look for you.”
Mr. Grumpy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hmm. That’s a lot to tackle in one go. You want me to take them one by one, or—”
“Problem solved,” said the flight attendant brightly. “There’s another aisle seat that’s empty over there.” She pointed to the other side of the cabin a few rows back. “Or one of you can take the window. Which would you prefer, Mr. Finch?”
Feeling somewhat embarrassed yet unapologetic over her outburst, Emerson reached for her purse. “Look, I can go back—”
“I’ll go,” Mr. Finch said, although he’d always be Mr. Grumpy to her.
“Thank you,” the flight attendant said, casting a look in Emerson’s direction, as if she’d been the problem all along. “We’re grateful for your cooperation.”
Silently seething and mortified, Emerson sat back down.
“Thanks for taking your seat, Ms. Dyer. Mr. Finch, if you’d like to go and take your seat, we’ll be departing shortly.”
Mr. Grumpy’s demeanor shifted. His spine straightened, and his pale eyes glared at Emerson. He spun on his heel and marched up the aisle without another word.
It was the oddest part of their whole encounter.
Emerson raised the wine to her lips, but it tasted sour on her tongue. The enjoyment taken away by a man she didn’t know and shouldn’t possibly care about.
In an attempt to reclaim the positive mood she’d been embracing just before Mr. Grumpy’s arrival, she forced herself to sip the wine anyway.
But she couldn’t resist one last look in his direction, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found him staring right back at her.
Catch. Power. Recovery.
Catch. Power. Recovery.
Connor Finch focused on the repetition. He kicked his legs, propelling himself forward, turning his head every second stroke to gulp for air. When the end of the pool came into view, he tucked his head and turned, kicking off the edge of the pool to gain momentum.
Catch. Power. Recovery.
His arms burned, muscles already tired from an hour spent in the gym. His mind was empty of any thought other than lap count and form.
The hotel pool was less than ideal, but thankfully it wasn’t busy enough to stop him from achieving his goal. Five kilometers. Six days a week.
As he finished the final lap, he reached for the side of the pool, holding tight as he sucked in large gulps of air. While his body screamed for rest, his mind calmed and he savored the sacred moments of peace. He pulled himself from the pool and removed his cap and goggles.
Connor checked his Rolex Submariner, a gift from his father for graduating Harvard with his MBA eight years earlier and joining him at his firm, Finch Liquor Distribution.
Sixty-seven minutes. Damn, he was slipping.
Once he’d showered, he slipped into gray sweats and a T-shirt and returned to his room to get formally dressed. The swim made getting to the event that evening a little tight, but he felt better for the exertion.
His mother had once remarked that he lacked spontaneity. But he’d whittled his routine down to a fine art. Habits were stacked. Performance measured. Results recorded. Why anyone would waste their time without a solid routine was beyond him.