Chapter 4

• “Did you give me the window seat so I would have to climb over you?”
• He tilts his head to the side. “No, I gave you the window seat because you wanted it. Climbing over me was just an added bonus.”
• I stare at him as I struggle to respond. Am I imagining this? Older rich guys don’t usually speak to me like this . . . at all. “Are you flirting with me, Jim?” I ask.
• He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I don’t know. Am I?”
• “I asked you first, and don’t answer my question with a question.”
• He smirks as he turns his attention back to the television screen. “This is probably where you should start flirting back . . . Emily.”
• I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I try to hide my stupid smile. “I don’t flirt. I either want a man or I don’t,” I announce.
• “Is that so?” he says as if fascinated. “And how long after you meet a man do you make that decision?”
• “Instantaneously,” I lie. That’s not true, but I’ll pretend. Faking confidence is my superpower.
• “Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her.
• “Of course, sir.”
• His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?”
• I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.”
• He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him.
• “What’s funny?” I ask.
• “You are.”
• “Why am I funny?” I frown.
• “This sense of righteousness that you have.”
• “Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.”
• Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip. “What were you doing in London?”
• “Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “I flew over for a friend’s wedding, and to be honest, I wish I hadn’t gone.”
• “Why not?”
• “My ex was there with his new squeeze, and he was being over-the-top affectionate with her to piss me off.”
• “Which worked, obviously,” he adds as he tilts his glass toward me.
• “Hmm.” I sip my drink in disgust. “Just a little.”
• “What did she look like?”
• “Long bleached-blonde hair and huge silicone lips and boobs and eyelashes and fake tan and everything I’m not.”
• “Hmm.” He listens intently.
• “Like Backseat Barbie on crack.”
• He chuckles. “Everyone loves a Backseat Barbie.”
• I look over at him in disgust. “This is probably where you should tell me that all men hate Backseat Barbies, Jim. Don’t you know anything about polite plane-conversation etiquette?”
• “Obviously not.” He frowns as he considers my statement. “Why would I do that?”
• I widen my eyes to accentuate my point. “To be nice.”
• “Oh, right.” He frowns as if bracing himself to lie. “Emily . . . all men are repulsed by Backseat Barbies.”
• I smile as I tip my glass to him. “Thank you, Jim.”
• “Although . . .” He pauses for a moment. “If they give good head . . .”
• What the hell?
• I snort my champagne up my nose and choke. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear come out of his mouth. “Jim,” I splutter as it sprays everywhere.
• He laughs as he grabs his napkins and hands them over, and I wipe the drink dribbling from my chin.
• “Men who look like you are not supposed to talk about head.” I cough.
• “Why not?” he asks incredulously. “And what do you mean, men who look like me?”
• “All serious and stuff.”
• He looks at me deadpan. “Define stuff .”
• “You know, older, rich, and bossy.”
• His eyes dance with delight. “And what gives you the impression that I’m rich and bossy?”
• I exhale in an overexaggerated way. “You look rich.”
• “How do I?”
• “Your fancy watch. The cut of your shirt.” I glance down at his shoes. “I’ve never seen shoes like that before. Where did you even get those?”
• “In a shop, Emily.” He looks at his watch. “And I’ll have you know that this watch was a gift from a girlfriend.”
• I roll my eyes. “I bet she’s a vegan yoga nut.”
• He smirks.
• “I know your type of woman.”
• “Really.” He leans closer. “Please go on—this character analysis is fascinating.”
• I smile as a little voice from my subconscious screams, Stop drinking, fool! “I’m assuming you live in New York.”
• “Correct.”
• “In an apartment.”
• “Affirmative.”
• “You probably work at some ritzy company.”
• He smiles; he likes this game. “Perhaps.”
• “You would have a girlfriend or . . .” I glance down. “You don’t wear a wedding ring . . . so perhaps you cheat on your wife when you travel for work?”
• He chuckles. “You really should make a profession out of this. I’m amazed at the accuracy.”
• I like this game too; I smile broadly. “What do you think about me?” I ask. “What was your first impression when I walked onto the plane?”
• “Well.” He frowns as he considers the question. “Do you want the politically correct version?”
• “No. I want the truth.”
• “Right . . . well, in that case, I noticed your long legs and the curve of your neck. The dimple in your chin. You are the most attractive woman I’ve seen in a long time, and when you smiled, it brought me to my feet.”