Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“No!” I blurted.
He stilled, then turned his head slowly to look up at me. “No?”
“I mean, I hate the window. I’m actually really freaked out by flying, so it works better this way.” Crap, I was babbling. “Unless you want the aisle?” I held my breath with hope that he wouldn’t.
He sat back up and shook his head. “No, I’m good here. Freaked out by flying, huh?” There was no mockery in his tone.
“Yep.” Relief sagged my shoulders, and I folded up my jacket, then squished it under the seat in front of me with my purse.
“Why?” he asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
My cheeks turned up the heat a notch. “I’ve always been afraid of flying. There’s something about it that just . . .” I shook my head. “I mean statistically, we’re fine. The incident rate last year was one in 1.3 million, which was up from the year before, when it was one in 1.5 million. But, when you think about how many flights there are, I guess that’s not as bad as driving, since your odds of crashing are one in 103, but still, 828 people died last year, and I don’t want to be one of the 828.” You’re babbling again. I pressed my lips between my teeth and prayed my brain would cut it out.
“Huh.” Two lines appeared between his eyebrows. “Never thought of it that way.”
“I bet flying doesn’t scare you, does it?” This guy looked like nothing in the world scared him.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never flown before, but now that you went over the stats, I’m questioning my choices.”
“Oh God. I’m so sorry.” My hands flew to cover my mouth. “I babble when I get nervous. And I have ADHD. And I didn’t take my medication this morning because I put it out on the counter next to my orange juice, but then Serena drank the juice, and I got sidetracked pouring more, and that pill is probably still sitting there—” I cringed, slamming my eyes shut. A deep breath later, I opened them and found him watching me with raised eyebrows. “Sorry. Add in the fact that I overthink just about everything, and here we are. Babbling.”
A small smile crept across his face. “Don’t worry about it. So why get on a plane at all?” He adjusted the airflow above his head, then shoved the black sleeves of his henley up his tan forearms. The guy was built. If his forearms looked like that, I couldn’t help but wonder if the rest of his body followed suit.
“Thanksgiving.” I shrugged. “My parents went on one of those around-the-world cruises after dropping me off for freshman year, and my older sister, Serena, is a junior here at Wash U—she’s studying journalism. Since I’m all the way up at Syracuse, flying made the most sense since we wanted to spend the holiday together. You?”
“I’m headed to basic training at Fort Benning. I’m Nathaniel Phelan, by the way. My friends call me Nate.” The stream of passengers down the aisle had trickled to just the hurried latecomers.
“Hi, Nate. I’m Izzy.” I reached out my hand and he took it. “Izzy Astor.” Not sure how I managed to say my full name when every ounce of my concentration was on the feel of his calloused hand engulfing mine, and the flutter that erupted in my stomach at the warmth of his touch.
I wasn’t one of those people who believed in jolts of electricity at first touch like all the romance novels, but here I was, jolted to my core. His eyes flared slightly, like he’d felt it too. It wasn’t a shock as much as an almost indescribable, sizzling feeling of awareness . . . connection, like the satisfying click of the final puzzle piece.
Serena would have called it fate, but she was a hopeless romantic.
I called it attraction.
“Nice to meet you, Izzy.” He shook my hand slowly, then let go even slower, his fingers waking up every nerve ending in my palm as they fell away. “I’m guessing that’s short for Isabelle?”
“Actually, it’s Isabeau.” I busied myself fastening my buckle and tightening my belt across my hips.
“Isabeau,” he repeated, buckling his own.
“Yep. My mom had a thing for Ladyhawke.” The aisle was finally empty. Guess we had everyone aboard.
“What’s Ladyhawke?” Nate questioned, his brow furrowing slightly.
“It’s this eighties movie where a couple pisses off an evil medieval bishop because they love each other so much. The bishop wants the girl, but she’s in love with Navarre, so the bishop curses them. Navarre becomes a wolf during the night, and she turns into a hawk during the day, so they only catch a glimpse of the other when the sun rises and sets. Isabeau is the girl—the hawk.” Stop babbling! God, why was I like this?