Page 84 of Flirty Fall Fling

“Thanks, Miller. Good seeing you too.”

The seats are the color of mocha, and the lights are dimmed. I lead her to where we’re sitting, and there’s already a bottle of champagne on ice, waiting for us.

Blaire stops in the aisle and turns in a full circle, taking it in. “I’ve never seen a plane so pretty.”

I smile, patting the seat beside me. “I picked it out myself.”

Her eyes widen.

“What can I say? I like pretty things.”

During takeoff, she closes her eyes. The mountains fall away below us, and clusters of lights twinkle in the valleys. I take her hand, interlocking our fingers together. We only have twenty-eight days left.

“Tell me something about you I don’t know,” Blaire says, turning her body toward me and sipping her champagne.

“Only if you’re playing too,” I offer.

She nods. “I’ll play.”

I tap my finger on my lips. “I was engaged once.”

Her brows pop up. “Really? The Fling King was engaged?”

I sip my champagne. “Yeah. We dated for a few years.”

She gasps. “What happened?”

“Ah, well, I realized the only reason I was with her was because my brother wanted her. He was actually in love with her, but I didn’t realize it was that serious until later.”

“You’re an asshole!” Blaire says, playfully slapping my arm.

“I know. I thought maybe if I dated the woman he was too chickenshit to pursue, I’d …”

“Fall in love,” she says, but her face softens. “I was in love with a man who liked me but hated the witch part. He wanted me to give it up, and I almost did. That relationship broke me in ways that are still hard to explain.”

I shake my head. “Fuck that guy.”

She downs the rest of her champagne. “It was a blessing in disguise. Trust me.”

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” I admit.

“I could say the same about you.”

For a minute, neither of us speaks. Blaire looks out at the dark, and I look at her. Somewhere out there is a man who had this woman as his and wanted to change her, shape her into something she wasn’t.

“Now tell me where we’re going,” she says.

“You’ll know the moment we arrive,” I say.

“Jamie.” She downs her wine.

“Blaire”—I refill it—“you’re such an impatient little thing.”

“Maybe I am. But you seem to like that,” she says, smiling.

“I fucking love it.”

Over the next hour, she tries to get me to crack but fails. We trade stories about growing up and life in general. Her first animal was a barn cat named Pretzel. I share how I broke my nose twice before I turned twenty. She inspects my face.