by Danica Avet
But I had to get there first, which means taking my seat next to the large man.
I drag my feet down the aisle to my assigned seat, the guy on the aisle getting bigger and bigger with every step. And more attractive. Like I really need that. Longish chestnut hair was all ruffled around his tanned face, the look careless and sexy. A thick, russet beard covers his jaw. It should’ve made him seem unkempt, but the combination only emphasizes his dark eyes and the slightly crooked nose. His shoulders are so on my side of the divide between the seats, although I doubt he cares. He looks out of place. A lumberjack in the middle of urbanity.
I grit my teeth. Men have been the bane of my life. From my dad to Adam to all those bastards in my apartment building who seemed to think because I’d been with a married man I’d be up for anything; they were all on my shit list. This one included simply by virtue of his dangly bits.
Two rows from my seat, I pull my shoulders back and decide I won’t let his attractiveness bother me, because I’m officially done with men. The move draws his gaze from my face to my chest. The look feels like a caress and things start tingling that really shouldn’t after you’ve made an inner vow to leave men alone. That’s probably why I don’t notice the kid swinging his leg in the aisle.
At least that’s what I think happens. I’m not entirely sure, because one minute I was going to swan into my seat and the next I’m up close and personal with the lumberjack’s groin. As in my face was pressed into his crotch, as though I was a very ill-mannered dog.
“God please kill me,” I mumble into the soft denim.
A muffled grunt answers my words and I swear to god there’s a twitch, of the excited-man kind, under my nose. I also can’t help but notice he smells really good. Like laundry detergent and expensive cologne. Sweet Jesus, I’m smelling his crotch!
I lift my head to see him looking down at me with the same expression I know is on my face, part shock and part horror, but there’s something else there I don’t want to see.
“Miss! You need to take your seat,” one of the attendants says in a scandalized voice, as though I was about to open his pants and whip his junk out for the whole plane to see.
Mortification sets in. While I’m not exactly happy to be between the thighs of a man I don’t know, I don’t want to get up for everyone on the plane to see me. Maybe if the attendant hadn’t practically shrieked the statement those at the front of the plane wouldn’t have noticed. But she had and I can hear the titters, laughs, and I just know phones are being whipped out to document the entire embarrassing scene.
I grip the lumberjack’s thighs—which are rock hard—and push myself back to my feet. His hands hold my arms, providing support I don’t want. My purse and carry on had fallen to the floor, but luckily stayed closed. I’m not sure I could stand the additional humiliation of having my tampons strewn all over the plane. With as much dignity as I can muster, I shove my carry on into the overhead compartment—very conscious of my chest right next to his head. My face is burning. I know it is. The curse of being naturally fair means when I get flushed, I look like a cartoon character.
The next obstacle is the lumberjack’s very large, long body. Without looking at me, he eases to his feet, towering over me. If I weren’t so utterly rattled, I might be in awe of his sheer size. As it is, I can’t wait to get into my seat and close my eyes so I can pretend the last two minutes of my life never happened.
He sits back down and my guess was correct. He totally takes up at least a fourth of my seat. His big shoulder brushes mine as he fastens his belt. I fumble with my own, before turning my attention to the window. As soon as we take off, I’ll pull out my tattered copy of Lord of the Rings and lose myself in dream men like Aragorn and Legolas. They’ve never failed me.
The attendants, finally satisfied I won’t be performing any sexual acts during the flight, move down the aisle to secure the overhead compartments and start their safety spiel.
“I’m Shaun,” the lumberjack says quietly.
I keep my gaze focused outside the window, watching as the baggage crew finished loading the plane, although I have to admit my nipples spring to sharp attention at the sound of his voice. In the pursuit of my Masters of Music degree I had to do vocal training, even though my specialization was composition and percussions. I learned a lot about voice classifications, and the lumberjack’s would fall into the bass-baritone category. Rich and full, it’s a beautiful voice, sexy even, and I am not happy about that at all.
Composing myself as well as I can, because I so do not need this right now, I glance at him. Okay, he’s smiling. I’d heard it in his voice. But I didn’t know how that smile would make his eyes crinkle at the corners or the deep brown irises twinkle, or how it would make my body react.
“Katherine,” I mutter and look away again.
Why wasn’t this flight taking off? It was like the fates hate me, or were getting a kick out of the mess I’ve made of my life.
“Nice to meet you,” he murmurs, extending one of those lean hands in my direction.
I close my eyes. If my mother hadn’t raised me to be polite, I’d ignore his overture of friendship. If Adam hadn’t royally screwed me over, I’d have been pleased by his attention. The emotions duking it out inside me go back and forth.
I hate men.
Mom taught me manners.
Men are assholes.
I’m still a good, kind person who just so happens to have carried on an affair with a married man.
I open my eyes again and shake his hand. “Likewise,” I murmur through numb lips, because the sizzle of electricity that races up my arm from the contact with his bare skin leaves me shocked.
With our eyes connected during the brief touch, I see the way his pupils dilate slightly, as though he feels it as well. I pull away sharply and stare straight ahead.
Shit, this is going to be a long flight.
Shaun
She’s adorably embarrassed. I can’t remember the last time I saw someone so flustered. Of course, I’ve never had a woman fall face-first into my junk before. Well, that isn’t entirely true. In my partying days, if there wasn’t a cleat chaser with her face in my groin it was a slow night, but that was so long ago it feels like another lifetime. Besides, none of them had been like this girl. Except Denise, I remind myself as I studied her, although I now know Denise had played the game of awkwardness and nativity. This woman couldn’t hide her emotions under a paper bag. When she blushes her face turns so red she practically glows and her blonde eyebrows disappear, giving her a startled appearance.
I think it’s cute and funny. She’s cute and funny. I’d heard her muffled voice praying for God to kill her. It made me want to laugh, but I didn’t. That would’ve only embarrassed her more. Besides, I’d been concentrating on the heat of her breath reaching my dick through my jeans and doing my best not to throw wood. What can I say? It’s been a while since I’ve had a blow job.
Her face is pretty and natural, those bright green eyes veiled by a pair of librarian glasses I think are fucking hot. Her hair only brushes the edge of her jawline and curls all over the fucking place as though she’d just gotten out of bed.
Then there’s the rest of her.
I’d first noticed the tits as she started down the aisle. Again, what can I say? I might be going through a divorce, but I can still appreciate a woman’s body, and this one has a nice rack. Generous and soft enough that it jiggled as she walked. She wasn’t skinny or even thin, carrying a good bit of junk in her trunk. I’d noticed that when she slid by me to get to her seat, the long, black skirt she’s wearing doing little to hide it.
I’d dreaded this flight, dreaded the attention of the staff and other passengers, but no one seemed to recognize me so far. The beard had been a good idea. The last thing I wanted was to fend off questions and fans for two and a half hours. That’s probably why I was trying to engage in conversation with the cute blonde, because I don’t usually dig chit chat. But getting to know
her was better than thinking about the slowly dwindling pile of offers I had left to sort through.
The interviews with the NFL teams had been a waste of my time. I’m not sure what they were looking for, but it wasn’t me. I wasn’t about to use my name and reputation just to collect a paycheck. It’s why I decided against broadcasting. I watched the shows a lot of former players hosted, watched the games they called and, unfortunately, a lot of them ended up looking idiotic. No way in hell was I going out that way.
I’d personally called Buddy down in Louisiana to set up an interview. He’d been an assistant coach at UCLA when I was their top tight end. That he even wanted to talk with me about the position at Sauvage was an honor. I respected Buddy, kept in touch with him through emails and sporadic phone calls over the years. I saw the good he was doing down at Sauvage. If I could be a part of that I’d feel as though I was accomplishing something, as though I was a part of something.
Besides, college ball had been the absolute fucking best. In those days it hadn’t been about ego, money and fame. It’d been all about the game. If I could bring my knowledge to kids who were in it for the same reason, it would be worth everything.
Funny how shit worked out. The two weeks I spent alone at my cabin, just reflecting on everything, had done me a world of good. Without Denise’s expectations and disappointment hanging over my head like a cloud, I was able to actually think. Of course, the three hour phone call I had with my parents had helped as well.
My parents had gone all Decker Double-Down, meaning they ganged up on me. Mom never liked Denise anyway, so she was happy the marriage was over. They managed to talk some fucking sense into me, digging into my brain the way they had when I was a kid, and helping me see clearly.
Sauvage is where I want to be. The talks with the NFL teams had been lukewarm, except for the GMs’ enthusiasm about my reputation giving their rosters a boost. No thank you. I want to actually do something worthwhile and I can do that in a college program, specifically under Buddy Nielson’s no-nonsense direction. And I have a good feeling about it. He’d reached out to me, so he must think I had some promise in coaching. He wouldn’t ask me to interview if he didn’t.
Shaking the thought off, I look at Katherine. She doesn’t look like a Katherine. More like a Katie. There’d been a few weird calluses on her hand when I shook it and it made me want to know how she’d gotten them. She doesn’t look like she did manual labor for a living but, then again, I probably don’t look like a professional athlete at the moment either. Retired athlete, I remind myself.
“Business or pleasure?”
She’s drumming her fingers against her purse but pauses when I speak, glancing over at me with a frown. “What?”
Fuck, she’s cute. “Are you going to New Orleans for business or pleasure?”
Her lips purse, as she surveys me from behind those glasses. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be shamed for bothering her. Instead I feel like a very bad boy being chastised by a sexy librarian. “Both, I guess you could say,” she says firmly, and turns away again.
She digs around in the massive purse she has in her lap and pulls out a book. Obviously she doesn’t want to talk, but that only makes me want to know more about her. I’m not being conceited, I swear. Women like me. I might not have cheated on Denise, but it wasn’t for a lack of offers. That this woman is so resistant to me makes the stubborn in me come out.
Then I think about it. What can I give her? A quickie in the bathroom at the front of the plane? Not likely. Katie—yes, I’m now calling her that in my mind—isn’t interested. I give a mental sigh of disappointment and tell myself it’s for the best. I have too much on my plate at the moment and can’t spare the time to unwrap the many layers of a complex woman I’ll probably never see again.
The attendants turn off the seatbelt sign so I recline my seat a bit and decide to catch a little nap. And try not to think about the soft little body next to me.
Kate
By the time we land in New Orleans I’m exhausted and yet weirdly keyed up. I blame it on Shaun. Yes, he stayed quiet the rest of the flight, but… He was there. Breathing next to me, smelling all sexy and irresistible. Even the bad-tempered flight attendant couldn’t seem to resist coming by every five fucking minutes to stare at him. Or offer him a pillow. Or a blow job.
Okay, that didn’t really happen, but I could see it in her eyes when she stared at his lap while asking me if I wanted nuts.
Yawning, stumbling and starving, I follow the rest of the herd down the concourse to the baggage claim. Somehow Shaun ends up leading the charge, his long legs carrying him away at a brisk pace. I envy him that stride. When I performed with the drum line in college, and again with the Red Mask Squad, I always struggled to lengthen my stride to stay in line with the rest of the guys. Being five-foot-two sucks ass.
When my bags finally come around on the carousel, I’m positive I’ll miss the shuttle to the hotel. I probably could’ve stayed at one of the nearby hotels, since I have to leave for LaSalle, Louisiana in the morning, but I’m in New Orleans for the first time ever. I’m damn well going to stay in the French Quarter and see a little of the city. Klauss understood my plans and said he’d have someone pick me up to bring me to the university for the interview.
I sent a silent thanks to the man upstairs for that small favor. Klauss didn’t have to offer me a ride to the interview, but I’m so thankful because the last time I drove a car was at least three years ago.
I can drive, I just don’t like to, and there was never any need to. We have trains and buses that can get me anywhere I need to go in Chicago. I think New Orleans is the same, although I don’t know. I do know LaSalle isn’t like that at all. It’s a little town, it’s only claims to fame Sauvage State University and its food. Klauss assured me that if I did get the job, there was plenty of real estate for rent or purchase in the area. I took that as a hint that I might be a favorite for the position.
As I hurry to the designated meeting place for the hotel shuttle, I once again see Shaun, except he’s heading for the car rental counter. Did I take a few minutes to watch his ass as he walks away from me? Yes I did. I might hate men, want nothing to do with them, but I can appreciate a tight pair buns and his are prime grade. Other women, and some men even, watch him go as well. There’s a sort of flurry of activity as he passes through the crowd, but the shuttle is beginning to fill up and I decide I have more important things to do than stare at any man, especially one I’ll never see again.
“Hey y’all, I’m Durron, but everyone calls me Shake ’n Bake,” the driver says, once he gets us all shoved into the van like sardines. “We gonna be stuck together for a while ’cause of traffic, so I’m gonna tell y’all how to survive in New Orleans.”
Maybe I should’ve braved the roads myself. Durron—there’s no way in hell I can call a grown man Shake ’n Bake—regales us with the dos and don’ts of being a tourist in the Big Easy. Apparently if someone bets they can tell where you got your shoes, you’re supposed to tell them on your feet. And if they bet they can tell where you’re from, you answer your mama. I’m not certain that’s something I need to worry about, so I tune him out and stare out the window.
The only saving grace of the forty-five minute trip from the airport to the hotel is the fact that, while he didn’t stop talking, Durron’s a good driver. I wasn’t worried he’d mow pedestrians down. I had that fear when I went to New York City a few years ago and I still haven’t recovered, probably adding to my paranoia about driving in strange places.
Once in my room, after gawking at another guest in the lobby I swear was Nicholas Cage, I take a shower and have a nap. I have priorities and they’re all about not thinking about Adam, St. Joseph’s, or the sexy man who sat next to me on the flight—although part of me mourns the loss of his scent, which had stuck to me. I hadn’t realized we were that close the entire trip, but I push all those stupid ideas out of my head.
I’m only in the city for one n
ight and I want to see a little of it. Of course, after Durron’s warnings I’m unsure about going alone. After I look at the room service menu—and the surcharges for delivery—I decide to take my chances. Apparently my hunger far outweighs caution. Then again, I’ve always played it safe. I’m in a new city, trying to turn my farce of a life around. I need to be bold, take a risk, and do something wild.
So I change into a pair of jeans Helen had talked me into buying that were just a shade tighter than I was used to, an old Bach-Man T-shirt—which featured Johann Sebastian Bach in a Batman mask—and my favorite red Chucks. Not the most adult attire, but I don’t care. I’m comfortable, cute, and my toes are covered up. I did pay attention to that part of Durron’s ramblings. Open-toe shoes might be sexy, but not if you happen to step on broken glass, or in someone’s vomit.
Shuddering at the thought, I stuff my license, room key, phone, credit card and some cash into my pockets. With a final fluff of my hair, which was doing what I wanted for once, I let myself out of my room and mosey to the elevators. My stomach growls, making me glad I’m alone in the hallway.
My phone vibrates and I pull it out of my back pocket just as the car arrives. I think it’s Mom and curse myself for not telling her I made it to my destination safely. Except, when I open the message, it isn’t from mom, but the asshole I’m trying to forget. Once the doors open, I step in without looking up, seeing only one pair of shoes in my periphery as I shoot an angry text off to Adam.
Adam: I miss u, pls let me see you
Katie: Fuck off.
Satisfied I got my point across, I stuff my phone back into my pocket and make sure my fellow passenger is going to the lobby. Flicking a glance at his reflection in the mirrored doors, my heart comes to a complete stop. I know that bearded face, even though it’s partially obscured by a ragged baseball cap, and if the way he’s grinning at me is any indication, he knows my face as well.