Guy slides his arm around my waist and draws me against his chest to let the girl pass. I suck a sharp breath. Hot Guy definitely works out. The hard contours of his pecs are unmistakable through his cotton shirt, the sharp ridges of his muscles firmly against my body. His palm flattens on my lower back, and he pulls me tighter. Oh, God. My fingers itch to touch him. Every chiseled inch. If he didn’t see me wet myself, this would be way better than picturing warm suds dripping down his body. In a shower. My hands trailing between his legs.
Then I flash to the last time I was this close to a guy. Hypnosis couldn’t repress that memory deep enough. Better for me and everyone involved if I stick with fantasies. Placing my hand on his chest, I push back from Hot Guy, a little disappointed to lose the contact.
Two long fingers find my chin and lift my gaze. “Look, Ginger, I’ll let you by when you tell me you’re okay. So are you hurt, or are you cool to make it back to your seat?”
There’s a scar on his chin, long and jagged. I blink to stop staring. “First, don’t call me Ginger. And second, yes. I’m fine. No thanks to your boot. Can I go back to my seat now?” I fiddle with my skirt, sure everyone nearby knows I’m flying commando.
Hot Guy studies me a beat, then raises his hands. “Watch your step on the way back.” But he barely moves, so I’m forced to rub against him (pantyless) to get by.
Holy heck, that chest.
Two steps away, I see my book still on the floor from my fall.
The rest happens in slow motion, an instant replay of pure awful.
I bend down to grab my book, and the airplane jiggles as though it’s bouncing from cloud to cloud. The floor tilts back. I reach to grab the nearest armrest, but a man’s arm is planted there “resting.” Next best option: launch myself forward to grab the back of the man’s chair. This super-smooth move occurs as the plane rights itself. The laws of gravity kick in, and I pitch forward. I don’t do this elegantly. No points for good form. I land on my elbows, and my skirt flies up to my hips.
Yes. My skirt. The skirt that covered my pantyless behind is hitched around my waist. OhGodOhGodOhGod. I flip on my back and tug the flimsy cotton down to my knees. I do it just in time to see Hot Guy close his mouth. His eyes darken ten shades before he slips into the bathroom I recently exited, where he’ll for sure assume it was I who dropped the atomic stink bomb.
Reminder to self: Always pee before boarding an airplane.
Two
I’m one of the last to make it to the customs line. The train of bodies coiling through the man-made maze is shorter than I expected. Pleased, I step toward the entrance, but there, squatting on the ground and rifling through his backpack, is Hot Guy Who Saw My Privates. Perfect. No way am I waiting in line behind him. No frickin’ way.
I bolt toward the bathroom at the back wall. Safely inside, I drop my bags and lean my (still pantyless) butt against the counter. The gray stall doors are all ajar, the whir of a running toilet looping. I used the first bathroom after disembarking, so I tap my foot and massage my hands, my pale skin insanely dry from the airplane. Sifting through my purse, I pull out a tube of moisturizer and apply a thick layer. Then I swivel toward the mirror and retie my ponytail.
Of all my five siblings, I’m the only one with red hair. Mom used to joke that I look a lot like my uncle Tony, Dad’s auburn-haired brother (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), until I tried to dye my hair black at fourteen. It turned zombie green. Of course. The day of my class photos. Mom thought it was hilarious and made me go to school, green hair and all, to take the pictures.
Her favorite is framed in our hallway.
A sudden vision of our kitchen in flames as Mom attempts to cook sets my heart racing. I grab my phone from my purse. As soon as I power it up, I bite my lip, still unsure how my parents took my sudden departure.
Mom: Knock ’em dead, baby girl. Let us know where you are when you land. And