Page 4 of Winging It with You

The man doesn’t move when I pull out the barstool closest to him.

Not even a raised eyebrow at the unintentional screech of the stool’s leg against the dated linoleum flooring.

His attention is focused instead on whatever he’s furiously typing away into his phone.

He’s striking in a subtle way. Dark blond hair falls haphazardly into place.

Long legs tucked awkwardly underneath his stool.

And while I’m privy only to his sharp profile from this angle, vibrant green eyes peek out from beneath thin tortoiseshell glasses and manicured eyebrows.

I clear my throat. Nothing.

“Excuse me,” I say, both unnerved by this man’s lack of situational awareness and envious of his ability to tune out the rest of the world. “I noticed you haven’t touched your mozzarella sticks.”

He puts his phone down, slowly turning to face me. “I’m sorry…what?” He’s dressed in one of those matching athleisure sets Amelia is always trying to push on me, with white Chucks laced loosely around his ankles.

“Your mozzarella sticks,” I repeat, noticing the fullness of his lower lip and the narrowed green eyes I’m now realizing are the color of moss. “You haven’t touched them.”

He blinks, shifting his eyes from mine to the basket of fried cheese in front of him. “I’m…what?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did you need something?” Exhaustion seeps off every syllable.

“Sorry, how rude of me,” I say, extending my hand in his direction. “I’m Theo Fernandez.”

He straightens on the stool he’s sitting on as he sheepishly takes my hand in his. The unexpected warmth of his skin sends the smallest tingle across my palm, but I ignore it.

“Uh…I’m Asher?”

“You don’t sound too sure about that.” He scowls at me, quickly letting go of my hand and allowing his own to fall back clumsily against the bar.

“It’s been a…day.” His voice trails off, and before I can ask why, he turns his gaze away from mine.

Not a fan of small talk, I see. I reach into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet to get straight to the point. “I’ll give you twenty dollars for them,” I say, sliding the bill across the bar toward him.

“What?”

“Your mozzarella sticks—I’ll give you twenty bucks for them.”

He opens his mouth to say something but quickly shuts it, the faintest of smiles forming as he fidgets in his seat. “Um. I don’t think so,” he says, reaching to pull the goods closer to him.

Okay, blondie. We’re playing hardball, I see.

“Look…” I glance down at his airline ticket, hoping to learn his full name.

“…Asher Bennett heading to Los Angeles by way of Dallas. You seem like a nice guy,” I toss out there, hoping a little flattery will soften whatever standoffishness I’m picking up on.

“I don’t want to bother you during your little mimosa and mozzarella stick snack—solid combo, by the way.

Real nutritious.” He fails at stifling a laugh.

Now we’re onto something. “But do you see that guy over there?” I say, pointing across the bar to where Mark has been watching from his seat, a grimace splashed across his face.

Asher Bennett’s gaze lingers on mine, hesitating as if he’s trying to decide whether to actually entertain whatever this is, but finally, he looks toward Mark, who waves.

“That handsome devil is my best friend, Mark. He and I have this little tradition where after every flight we fly together, we stop in here for some mozzarella sticks. It’s kinda our thing.”

Asher looks at me, unamused, resting his elbows on the bar as he leans forward in his seat. “That’s nice.”

“It is…it is. But you see,” I say, angling my body more toward his. “You appear to have gotten the last batch.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Incredibly. Are you a superstitious man, Asher Bennett?”

He shakes his head. “I prefer to spend my time based in reality, actually.”

“Ah, I see…a man of science. I can respect that. Well, Mark, on the other hand, he’s incredibly superstitious, and I’d hate to think what would happen if our little cheesy tradition here got ruined.”

“It would be such a shame.” He’s leaning closer now. Intrigued? Perhaps.

“Are you really willing to risk the lives of all those innocent passengers when Mark has to get in the cockpit for his next flight? I can only imagine the headlines…and who they’d blame.”

“Let me guess…me?” he asks, pointing a finger at himself, lines dancing around his eyes as his mouth curves into the briefest of smiles.

“I mean, I’m not one to point fingers.”

“Yet, here we are,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll tell you what,” he continues, reaching into his bag on the seat next to him and holding up a quarter.

“I’ll flip you for it. Heads, the sticks are yours.

” He pushes the basket toward me, a sly grin spreading across his face.

“But tails…” he says, rolling the coin across his knuckles.

“Tails, you’re going to have to do something for me. Deal?”

“Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“Be careful what you offer.” There’s a forced edge to his voice, one that leads me to believe whatever forwardness he’s presenting doesn’t quite come naturally to him.

I watch as a million little gears turn behind his big green eyes.

As they catch the sun coming in from the window, giving me a calculated once-over, I realize I might not be at all ready for what’s to come.