Page 121 of Forever Enough
Mom: So very happy! I love you. Safe flight.
Me: Love you all back. Gotta go, pulling back from the gate. See you in a few!
Glancing to my right, I saw the handsome stranger looking out the window. The captain came on and announced we were clear for takeoff…and my seatmate gripped the armrests. Was he afraid of flying?
“Sometimes if you talk during takeoff, it doesn’t seem so bad,” I said, as I leaned closer to him.
He snapped his head around and stared at me. “I hate flying. Well, I hate the takeoff and the landing.”
Giving him a sympathetic smile, I said, “Just take in some deep breaths.”
He dropped his head back and closed his eyes as we raced down the runway.
He looked as if he was about to get sick. I reached for his hand on instinct, then swore he was going to break my fingers with how hard he was squeezing.
“There was this one time I was walking down a runway in a Stella McCartney dress. The Princess of Spain was in the audience, and so was Lady Gaga.”
He turned his head and stared at me as if I had turned purple.
“I was so nervous that I was going to slip and fall, or the back of my dress would get caught in my panties, or something equally mortifying. When I spotted Lady Gaga sitting in the front row, I thought for sure I was going to throw up right there on her.”
His head tilted in the most adorable way. “You’re a model?”
“Was. I was a model. Anyway, she looked right at me and smiled! The most genuine of smiles that anyone has ever given me. I was instantly put at ease, and I walked that runway like I owned the son-of-a-bitch. I’m shorter than most of the models, and when I got picked by Stella to wear this particular design, a lot of them were pissed. I was convinced they were going to sabotage me in some way and cause me to fall.”
He looked shocked. “Would they do that?”
Shrugging, I replied, “I wouldn’t put anything past a bunch of competing women. And models can be vicious. Fashion used to be my dream. I moved to France when I was fifteen, and the first few years were like a dream, until I realized I wasn’t cut out for that world.”
“Why not?” he asked, letting my poor hand go.
“One word. Drama. I’m just not about it.”
He grinned, and I tried to ignore the way that made my stomach feel like the plane had just dipped. I looked around. Had it? No, the stranger would have grabbed my hand again.
“So what’s bringing you to Montana?” I asked.
His smile faded, and he cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, totally none of my business.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he let out a soft sigh. “My mother passed away from cancer a year ago.”
At that moment, the plane started to turn, and he grabbed my hand again and looked out the window.
I placed my free hand over his. He glanced down and noticed he was holding mine and quickly let go again. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Lifting my hand, I wiggled my fingers and thumb. “All good!”
He smiled, and I noticed a single dimple in his left cheek. Ugh. That was hot. And he was hot.
The spell was broken when he started to speak again. “Anyway,” he said, his smile fading and a sad expression taking its place. “My mother passed away, and when I was going through her belongings I stumbled upon some letters. She never told me who my father was. She talked about him a lot, said he was in the Marines, but told me it was best if I didn’t know anything about him. At the time, I was happy with my life and didn’t feel like I needed or wanted to know who he was, so I never pressed her about it.”
I turned in my seat, already invested in the story. The flight attendant appeared again, and the stranger ordered another drink. I could tell he was well on his way to being tipsy.
“The letters were from your father. Right?”
Nodding, he said, “Yeah. They were. It turned out she named me after him, much to my grandfather’s disliking.”