Samantha looks rather ruffled as she turns to face the man she’s just spent the better part of five minutes deriding. Her face is pale as she rises to her feet in greeting. I tell myself to follow suit, but I can’t. Here on the floor, half-hidden by the coffee table, I’m safe. Maybe if I stay down here, I can pretend the man attached to that voice — that incredibly gritty, incredibly familiar voice — isn’t the one person I most dread ever laying eyes onagain.
“Mr. Underwood,” Samantha drawls, dashing my hopes to dust. “Thank you for finally joining us. I apologize if you misinterpreted my earlier words. It was a joke in poor taste. I certainly didn’t mean to insultyou—”
Hesnorts.
“Anyway.” She swallows audibly. “Shall we getunderway?”
Without waiting for his response, she turns and flees across the suite to her husband’s side. Unfortunately, I have no such escape route. I keep my eyes on the coloring book, but all my attention is honed onhim.
There’s another amused snort, which quickly turns into a scoff of disbelief. “You again? This just gets better andbetter…”
He’s spottedme.
This alarming realization is accompanied by the sound of heavy male footsteps crossing the room. Moving closer… closer… and still closer, before coming to a definitive stop at the edge of the coffee table, mere inches from where I’m sitting on the floor like a child. Maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend he’s not there, he’lldisappear.
Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t lookup.
He waits for a moment, then lowers his duffle bag down into my line of sight, until it’s nestled beside my backpack. My eyes lock on the green canvas. My fingers have grown so clammy I can barely keep hold of the crayon in my hand. Sophie colors on, unaware of the adult drama unfolding aroundher.
The silence grows so prolonged, the air between us turns stale. I hardly dare to breathe, let alone move. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to glance up. My heart hammers like a blacksmith with ananvil.
“Watch that bag for me, will you?” he asks the top of my head in a strangled voice. “Last time I left it unattended, some girl tried to steal it fromme.”
He turns on his heel and walks off without anotherword.
The sunset orange crayon snaps in half in myhand.
Suddenly, my perfect trip to paradise is beginning to resemble hell onearth…
Chapter Four
T U R B U L E N CE
“Can I get you anything?A snack? Something todrink?”
“No, thank you.” I hold up my diet soda can. “I’m still working on thisone.”
…and I’ve already stockpiled two in my backpack forlater.
The cute male flight attendant nods and moves on through the cabin, checking to see if anyone else needs a cocktail refreshed. I turn my eyes back out the nearestportal.
I’ll admit, I was upset about not having the window seat on my first flight. Unnecessarily so, it turns out — there’s not all that much to see at thirty-five-thousand feet. Just a whole lot of billowy cloud-tops and an endless spread of ever-darkening horizon. The Pacific is somewhere far below us, growing dimmer with each passing hour as we chase the sunset across thesky.
I’ve been monitoring the growing darkness with keen attention, since I don’t dare cast my gaze elsewhere. Not when there’s a certain undesirable character who shall-not-be-named sprawled in the seat directly across from mine, just waiting for another chance to mortifyme.
I sigh and rub my sore neck. It may have a permanent crick from craning away fromhimfor the past five hours. When we boarded the small jet, I was hopeful I could avoid him. I thought there’d be a seat at the back, far away from the rest of the passengers, where Sophie and I could continue coloring inpeace.
No suchluck.
The jet is much smaller than I’d anticipated. After my inaugural voyage on a 747, it seems more like a levitating tin can than an actual aircraft. It can’t be more than forty feet long, and most of that space is taken up by the cockpit at the front, the flight attendants’ galley at the back, and the two bathrooms. What little space remains for our group of ten was designed with social passengers in mind — rather than standard row seating, an open plan of couches and comfortable bucket chairs line the walls of the plane, clustered together for maximum fraternization and in-flightnetworking.
As soon as we stepped aboard, Seth and his fellow Flint Group executives dispersed in the main lounge section at the front. They all look so similar I can’t keep them straight — five carbon-copy men in their mid-forties, with standard haircuts and forgettablenames.
The rest of our party was relegated to the section by the tail, a cozy arrangement of four recliners around a communal coffee table. Much to my horror, as I strapped Sophie into the seat beside mine, Samantha settled across from herdaughter…
Leaving just one openseat.
Directly across fromme.