Big Girls Do It Pregnant
Page 16
"Not nothing. I heard the tone in your voice." I quirked an eyebrow at him to let him know I was serious. I don't always do the eyebrow lift, but when I do, men obey me. Take that, Dos Equis hot old guy.
He chuckled and waggled his Band-aid wrapped thumb. "I've just not had a Band-aid on since I was boy. It feels a bit odd, is all."
I shrugged. "You were bleeding. There's nothing unmanly about putting on a Band-aid."
"It's a Hello Kitty Band-aid." He delivered the coup de grace deadpan, with an admirably straight face.
I managed to hold my serious expression for a few more minutes. "So?"
"It's pink." Still deadpan, not even a hint of a smile.
"So?"
"So I know real men wear pink, but this might be overdoing it a tad, don't you think?" He finally grinned at me, and we laughed. "And besides, Band-aids in general aren't very manly. Like umbrellas and hand lotion."
"So real men let themselves bleed everywhere, get needlessly wet, and have chapped hands?"
He nodded. "Right."
I laughed. "That's stupid."
He shrugged. "It's what we're taught as men. You're supposed to just deal with whatever happens and be tough." He glanced at the Band-aid again. "But thanks anyway--I do appreciate the gesture, though. You never told me your name, you know."
"Nina Herrera."
He smiled at me, and if I hadn't been sitting down, my panties might have fallen off. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Nina Herrera. So. London?"
I nodded. "I'm attending Oxford in the fall."
"Ah. I had a few mates attended there. Beautiful place." He unplugged the earbuds from the phone and tucked them in the breast pocket of his lavender button-down dress shirt and shrugged out of his dove-gray suit coat. "What are you going to study at jolly old Oxford, then?" He said the last part with an exaggerated Jeeves-the-butler accent.
"Literature. Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, specifically."
Ian pulled a face. "Ugh. Not my cup of tea, personally. I could never get past the boredom of all the who-said-what rot. Nothing ever really happened, you know? Give me Milton or Lord Rochester any day, if I've got to read boring old English nonsense."
I clutched my chest as if wounded. "Rot? That's the best part! It's all subtle. Every word had so many layers of meaning, everything every person said held importance. The conversations are where everything happens."
He shrugged. "Well, to each his or her own, I guess."
I clutched the armrests again as we began the slow roll down the runway, my chest tightening with pressure as the jet picked up speed. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, but it was better than crumbling into hysterics, which was the other option, as the roar of the engines picked up the sense of weightlessness sent my stomach roiling.
"Afraid of flying?" I heard Ian ask.
"Yes. Very," I said, the words clipped out.
"Clearly." He said it with a chuckle. "If you wanted to hold my hand, all you had to do was ask."
I glanced sharply at him. "What?"
He gestured to my right hand, which, instead of the armrest, was gripping his hand. My nails were digging into his flesh, dimpling the skin where each fingernail touched the back of his hand. I forced my hand open and let go, but then Ian reached out and took my hand in his, this time threading our fingers together.
"I'm not fond of flying, either," he said.
I stared at our joined hands, mine small against his, my tan fingers nestled against his fair-skinned ones. He didn't let go, just squeezed my hand gently, and then jutted his chin at my headphones.
"What are you listening to?" he asked.
We were airborne now, but we were still rising steeply and beginning a bank, so my terror ratcheted up even higher as my view out the window angled away from the ground to show nothing but overcast gray sky.
"Bjork," I answered, my voice barely audible.
"I love Bjork," Ian said. "What's your favorite song?"
"'Pagan Poetry,'" I answered. "But I have to watch the video if I'm going to listen to that song."
"God, that video is brilliant," Ian said, watching me intently, despite his casual conversational tone. "You would look sexy in that dress she's wearing."
I turned to glare at him. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Seeing me in that dress." I snorted. "I'd be flopping all over the place. It wouldn't be good. I need some serious support for these puppies."
"I would like that, yes." His gaze traveled down to blatantly peruse the "puppies" in question, namely, my breasts.
"Eyes up here, tiger." I pointed at my face, but I said it with a grin, letting him know I wasn't offended by his perusal.
Truth be told, I was all a-twitter inside. He'd perused me. Ogled me. He was holding my hand and talking to me, maybe even flirting with me. And he'd checked out my rack. Given, most men did, since it was on display even if I dressed demurely--which I didn't very often--but the way he'd looked me over had almost seemed...like he liked the rest of me, not just my boobs. Usually, a man's gaze took in my breasts, flicked over the rest of me, dismissed me, and then moved on.
Not Ian. He saw me; he saw me.
And he was still holding my hand, even after the jet leveled out and my nerves receded. This could spell something beautiful, or something heartbreaking, I realized. Maybe both.
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