Page 6 of At First Smile

CHAPTER THREE

Option B

Pen

W e’re alive. A little dazed, I take Rowan’s hand and follow him off the plane.

My weekender bag and his duffle hang over his broad shoulders.

I’d not even realized he’d gotten both our bags until we attempted to squeeze into the aisle together.

Stepping into the intense midday sunshine, I wince.

The stinging rays jolt me into the reality of the last thirty minutes.

The violent turbulence turned into a rapid descent and an emergency landing somewhere in Michigan.

I have the vague recollection of the pilot’s calm voice explaining that there were mechanical issues necessitating an emergency landing.

The entire time, Rowan kept his protective arms wrapped tightly around me.

And he continues to hold on to me, which I don’t mind in the least. Descending the narrow ramp to the tarmac our fingers remain linked. It should be weird. We don’t really know each other. Still, there’s something about my hand in his that seems right.

“Here,” Rowan says, plopping his hat onto my head. “It’s bright out here.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got another one in my duffle. I’ll grab it when we get inside.” His head tilts to the small terminal building at the end of the orange-coned barrier path.

“Thank you.” Some rather insistent butterflies make their presence known in my stomach.

Rowan’s kind gesture dissolves away the fear still biting my frayed nerves. I don’t want to be melodramatic about this, but we could have died. We didn’t but…. Instead, I sink into the knowledge that I’m alive, holding Rowan’s hand while we zigzag across the tarmac.

Rowan. Was he about to kiss me before the plane did whatever the hell that was? The sensation of his fingers coasting over my cheeks lingers. His fresh woodsy scent enveloping me as he leaned in. It’s been a while since I’ve been kissed, but I could still read the signs.

Entering the building, a frazzled flight attendant instructs passengers to take a seat in the boarding area so they can assist us with getting home. Rowan guides us to a pair of empty plastic chairs and tosses our bags onto them.

Turning, he grips my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. You?” I rasp, blinking.

The surrealness of today is dizzying. Any minute someone’s going to pinch me and wake me up from this dream.

I’ll find myself in my original last row coach seat, having never met Rowan, and my flight safely en route to Los Angeles.

The Sliding Doors effect with its alternative world in which I almost died in a plane crash but never met this man whose light eyes drink me in is not appealing.

“Are you sure?” His hands cup my face, seeming to search for something.

“Yes.” Dropping a folded Cane Austen between us, I mirror his movements, requiring me to rise to my tiptoes. “God, you’re tall. Why are you so tall?”

He huffs a quick laugh.

“Are you okay?”

Mouth slanted into a lopsided grin, he tucks me into a tight hug. “I am now.”

“It was scary, but we’re safe.” Eyes closed, I listen to his heart’s gentle thud. “Thank you for…”

I’m not sure what to say. Thank you for holding me, reassuring me, and making me feel safe and even needed .

Somehow, the way Rowan held me on the plane spoke to his need of me.

He both comforted and was comforted in one small action.

For so much of my life, people want to protect me.

They think my disability equates to a belief that I need to be taken care of.

There’s protectiveness in Rowan’s arms but also the plea for me in the thump of his heart. His arms give as much as they take.

“…Just thank you,” I murmur.

“Thank you.” His chin rests atop my head.

“I think I want to walk home, though.”

“Ditto.”

No way was I walking home in my strappy wedge sandals.

And double that sentiment on hopping on another flight.

The only destination available from this airport was Chicago.

If I thought one flight was unappealing, taking two was a nonstarter.

Some passengers opted to be bused ninety minutes to Detroit to catch flights later tonight.

With very little desire to climb into another plane today, Rowan and I take option B.

We’ll spend today here and rent a car to drive to Detroit tomorrow for a flight home.

Option B isn’t something the airline offers, but Rowan grunted that he and his “wife” would not be getting on a plane tonight.

The terrified flight attendant practically gulps, “Yes, Mr. Iverson.”

Something about the way he says “my wife” causes an unexpected clench in my vagina.

I am very much not his wife. The only thing I am to him is some random woman who bought his breakfast and sat next to him on a plane.

We both know it. The little case of mistaken identity is probably just a ploy Rowan is using to…

I don’t know but I’m not correcting the little ruse.

I never had a desire to be possessed or claimed by anyone.

Lord knows Alex, my ex-boyfriend, had a possessive streak and a desire to know where I was at all times, which led directly to his becoming the ex in his descriptor.

Although, the warning bells that had sounded with Alex are dead silent with this man.

Adjusting Rowan’s ball cap on my head, I greedily scan his muscular back – visible in his fitted Henley – while he fills out paperwork at the rental car counter.

What would it be like to be possessed by this man?

To have those strong arms folded around me at night.

To allow his hands to trail down my body, heating and claiming every inch.

To feel him move inside me, taking and giving all at the same time.

Heat crawls up my neck at the though. Five hours ago, Rowan was just a sexy lumberjack I offered to buy breakfast for.

Now, he feels like something more. I’m not sure if it’s the shared trauma of our near-death experience or the oversharing we seem to do so easily with one another, but he feels real.

Like a tangible dream I’d not realized I’d dreamt coming to life.

And I can’t stop wondering… Was he about to kiss me?

And if he was, why hasn’t he kissed me yet?

My phone buzzes. Slipping it out of my jacket’s pocket, JoJo’s name flashes on the screen.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Are you okay? I’ve been flight stalking you on the airline app, and it says you had an emergency landing. Where are you? Are you okay?” Panic grips JoJo’s tone.

“I’m okay.” I force a smile on my face.

Even if someone can’t see you, they can hear your smile.

Just another Aunt Bea-ism instilled from a very young age.

You’d be surprised how often smiling on difficult phone calls calms the other person.

I’ve had a lot of practice with the obligatory weekly chat with my mother.

“You’re getting married again .” Smile. “It’s totally fine you’re not flying out for my graduation.

” Smile. “Oh, sorry I’m not coming back for Christmas. ” Smile.

With a real smile – not the one reserved for my mother – I explain to JoJo what happened. Her frequent gasps of “oh my god” validate my “I was almost in a fricking plane crash” bewilderment.

“Thank the sweet baby Jesus you’re okay.” A relieved sigh rolls out of JoJo. “I don’t have the bandwidth to find a new best friend. You were hard enough to train,” she teases.

“Love you, too.” I snort.

“Will you be on a flight later tonight? I can pick you up. What time will you get in?”

“Tomorrow around eight p.m.”

“Tomorro w !” Her shrill response pricks my ears. “They almost kill my best friend, and now they can’t fly you home to me until tomorrow?”

“Don’t go rage posting about the airline,” I tut.

“They offered a flight, but we decided to take a break from flying after our near-death experience. We’re staying here today.

I’ll explore what Michigan has to offer for my social.

You know, blind girl takes on the Midwest. We’ll drive to Detroit to catch our flight tomorrow afternoon. ”

“We? Our? We’ll?!” Each word louder.

Shit. I cringe knowing exactly what I’ve done.

“Last time I checked you are not a member of the British Royal Family, so that can’t be the use of the Royal We. Penelope Anne Meadows, are you with someone?”

“Can we include this in the things we wait to discuss on our drive back from LAX?” I worry my lower lip, watching Rowan accept a key ring from the rental car attendant.

“As if. What’s his full name? I need to internet stalk him to ensure he’s not a serial killer or a hipster with a man bun.”

I resist the urge to cover my face with my hand.

My West Coast bestie elevates internet stalking to an art form.

With just a grainy cell phone picture taken in a dark club she found the guy she’d made out with one Halloween.

In a not-so-happy ending, turned out he was married with three kids.

Ending aside, JoJo has skills which she never ceases to use on behalf of her people.

And I’m her people. And she’s mine. Since freshman year – thanks to the randomness of the college roommate lottery – she joined Trina in the sisters from other misters bestie brigade.

Snorting, I roll my eyes. “His name is Rowan Iverson.”

“Rowan Iverson?” she almost gasps. “That is a hot guy name if I ever heard one.”

“Yep.” I bite back my oversized grin.

“Lady, how good looking are we talking?”

“Devastatingly,” I breathe, taking in Rowan’s tall figure sauntering my way.

“Well, if you end up at a hotel with only one room and one bed, just remember to use a condom… and tell me everything .”

“Life isn’t a trope from a romance novel. Also, I’m not having sex with someone I just met.”

“Maybe you should. You haven’t had sex since Alex—” she makes a barf noise. “Might be time to get the pipes clean. You know…use it or lose it, sister.”

“Goodbye, JoJo.”