Sky High (Three Contemporary Novella's) Read online

  After Simon had popped another cork, he leaned across her again to refill her glass. “Take a look at your former seat mate,” he whispered, close to her ear. She could feel his warm breath tickle her hair and skate down her neck. Goosebumps raced in its wake. She glanced at 6A across the aisle. He was still out cold. The drool on his chin had dried crusty and white. “Do you think he even knows we’ve turned around?” Simon mused.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a snort of laughter. “Can you imagine if he doesn’t? When we land at JFK he’s going to think it’s Mexico City and go looking for his connecting flight to Acapulco.”

  “Is that where he was headed?”

  “Mm-hmm. For his wedding to Krystal. I got to hear all about it before he passed out.”

  “Poor you. That’s going to make for an interesting wedding story, though.”

  “Those are the best kind, don’t you think? Tons of weddings turn out storybook perfect. The ones you remember are the ones that go really wrong. Although I’m not sure I’d want mine to go wrong the way his is about to go wrong.”

  He laughed, thank God, because Cassie was kicking herself in horror. She did not just bring up weddings as a conversational topic with him, not after everything they’d shared today. She may have even spoken tangentially about her own wedding, even if it was hypothetical and likely never taking place. Still, there was no surer way to send the signal that you were desperate and clingy than to bring up weddings.

  Surprisingly, Simon took it in stride. Not so much as a hint of panic crossed his features. He just started in on his own tale. “I suppose you’re right. My sister’s wedding was a bit of a disaster. The caretaker of the chapel got the dates mixed up and went on holiday that week. The rector and the wedding party showed up and it was locked up tight.”

  “Oh no! What did you do?”

  “Well, after a fruitless hour of frantic phone calls, the guests showed up and she went ahead and had the wedding right there in the churchyard. It was rather lovely, actually. It was springtime, with flowers everywhere. Sybil was mortified at the time but even she laughs about it now.”

  And now he was talking about weddings. Why did they keep wandering into these conversations that were far too intimate for two strangers chatting on a long flight? She kept forgetting the rules for this kind of thing, and somehow he was forgetting them, too. You weren’t supposed to share childhoods and broken hearts. You weren’t supposed to confide fears and dreams. And you certainly weren’t supposed to chat about perfectly imperfect wedding days. But hadn’t they both been doing that all afternoon? She didn’t know what to make of this day or this man.

  Marianne came by to collect their glasses and the small forest of empty champagne singles on their two trays. “Sorry, we’re getting ready to land, so time to wrap up the party,” she said apologetically.

  Funny, for a day that had gone so disastrously wrong, the last few hours had very much felt like a party—an intimate party for two. Cassie reluctantly sat up straight and bent over to put her heels back on. Simon cleared his throat.

  “Ah, Cassie...I don’t know about you, but the evening I had scheduled is happening without me in Mexico, and I find myself without plans tonight.”

  She sat back up and looked at him. He looked charmingly bashful, not quite making eye contact, as he smoothed down his tie. She held her breath for the rest of his little speech. “Since you’re also unexpectedly free tonight, I thought... Would you like to get some dinner together?”

  A delicious rush of giddiness and heat swept through her, that moment when the guy you like unequivocally expresses his own interest. She needed to be straight with herself, though. She just met this guy—this frequent business traveler—on a plane. She knew very well they were both going to fly back to their regularly scheduled lives tomorrow morning. They’d be taking advantage of an unexpected opportunity, not starting something. But why shouldn’t she take advantage of this opportunity? One night stands weren’t exactly her thing, but then again, steady relationships hadn’t exactly been her thing of late, either. Which meant that things hadn’t happened in quite a while. A dry spell was putting it mildly.

  She was a grown woman. She was smart enough to know what this was, and, more importantly, what it wasn’t. It would be like ordering dessert after dinner when she really shouldn’t, or pouring a second glass of wine after a hard day. Simon would be her treat to herself, to be enjoyed tonight and only tonight. She was giving herself permission to indulge in him.

  Smiling, already tingling with anticipation, which she hadn’t felt in such a long time, she nodded. “I’d like that.”

  Simon met her eyes and smiled in return. His smile was truly gorgeous. There should be laws against men with smiles that persuasive. She’d almost forgotten what this kind of attraction felt like.

  “There’s a great little Italian place I like. Sound all right?”

  She was already imagining what his kiss would be like and looking forward to the first time he touched her. What they ate for dinner seemed entirely beside the point. But if he wanted to be a gentleman and take her for dinner first, she wasn’t going to say no.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  She busied herself packing up her things as the plane landed and taxied. In the bustle of passengers retrieving carry-ons from the overhead bins, she missed her old seatmate, 6A, waking up from his epic bout of unconsciousness. In fact, she’d forgotten all about him until she was shuffling down the aisle behind him and his friend from 7A, headed towards the exit.

  “I can’t wait to hit the beach, man,” 6A moaned.

  “Dude, I’m telling you,” 7A said, sounding exasperated. “We are not in Mexico. We turned around and went back to New York.”

  “Stop fucking with me, Neil. I need to piss and get another beer before we catch the flight to Acapulco.”

  Cassie felt Simon nudge the small of her back. She turned to look at him over her shoulder and he mouthed “Told you so.”

  She began to giggle, then laugh, and finally she had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle it. She looked back at Simon just as he broke out in unrestrained laughter, too.

  “If we had more time,” he said. “It would be fun to follow him around the airport and see how long it takes him to figure it out.”

  “That would be fun, but I’m not sure I’m willing to skip dinner to find out the answer to that question.”

  He met her eyes, and the laughter was gone, replaced with something that made her momentarily speechless. “I’m not willing to skip dinner, either. I’m starving.”

  “Me, too,” she murmured, a little breathless.

  Simon unfurled that slow, sexy smile again. “Then let’s get out of this bloody airport.”

  #

  Their cab deposited them in front of a narrow storefront restaurant in the Meatpacking District, holding no more than fifteen tables. When Simon ushered her in, both of them steering carry-on suitcases, the host, an older man with salt and pepper hair and a white button down with the sleeves rolled up, greeted him by name.

  “Simon! Didn’t think we’d see you this week. You said you were headed out again.” He shook Simon’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Ron, it was the most unbelievable flight disruption you can imagine, but the short version is they made us turn around and come home.”

  “We?”

  “This is Cassie, another stranded flyer. Cassie, this is Ron. He and his wife, Rita, own the place.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cassie. Come on in and we’ll get you a table. Here, leave the bags. I’ll get Chris to stash them in back for you.”

  “We’d appreciate that. What’s good tonight, Ron?”

  “The fish is good. We got some very good sole this morning from our guy at Hunt’s Point. Also, Rita made a pork ragù that’ll make you weep. Over her homemade cavatelli? Nothing better.”

  “Ooh that sounds good,” Cassie nearly moaned. “But I’m starving, so everything sounds goo
d.”

  “Believe me,” Simon said, as they followed Ron to the back of the restaurant. “It’s all good here.”

  Ron settled them at a tiny two seat table in the corner and set menus down. “Take a look at the menu before you decide.”

  “Some wine, Cass?”

  She started at the way he’d shortened her name, so familiar and unscripted. He was looking at the menu, unaware that he’d even done it. She liked it. Very much. “Wine would be good. Something red. I’m not picky.”

  Simon cocked an eyebrow. “No?”

  “You learn to deal with anything you find when you travel the way I do.”

  “A bottle of the Genetto Nebbiolo, Ron.”

  “You got it, Simon.”

  “They seem to know you pretty well here,” she observed after Ron left.

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t have time to cook but I still like to eat good food. This place has great food, so I come a lot. It’s close to my place.”

  “It is?”

  “Right around the corner. You sound surprised.”

  Convenient, was her first thought, although she didn’t say it. “Just thought you’d be more of an Upper East Side kind of guy.”

  He scowled. “I prefer downtown. More character.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Where are you then?”

  “East Village. Actually the same tiny railroad apartment I’ve been in since I moved here. I keep thinking I should move but...”

  “No time.”

  She laughed. “Story of my life.”

  Ron appeared with the wine and a plate of antipasti to start, which Cassie attacked with embarrassing gusto.

  “Sorry, I was famished.”

  “Don’t apologize. A girl needs her strength.”

  Her eyes shot to his. They were pale and glinting with humor in the low, flickering light from the candle on their table. But not just humor. There was a hint of hunger there too, and not just for the olives. She licked her lips and his eyes darted to her mouth. The air nearly crackled with their mutual attraction. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt such a powerful spark. Maybe never. Her throat went dry and she took a sip of her wine to soothe it. Simon cleared his throat and did the same, looking as affected as she was.

  “What’s that?” She pointed at a small pot of what looked like jam on the antipasti plate, because talking about food seemed safer than possible discussions about what all this rampant sexual attraction might lead to next.

  “Ah, it’s this fig jam Rita makes. You have to try it, but here, do it properly.”

  He smeared some soft white cheese on a small slice of bread, then added a dollop of the fig jam and finished it with a paper-thin sliver of prosciutto.

  He held it up to her. “Open up.”

  She hesitated only a moment before leaning forward and taking a bite. She was aware of his eyes on her the whole time, aware of the intimacy of the gesture, eating food from his fingers. Then she was only aware of the flavors on her tongue because they were amazing. A perfect blending of textures and flavors, the creamy coolness of the cheese, the complex and grainy subtle sweetness of the fig jam, the tangy saltiness of the prosciutto. She hadn’t known it was possible to taste with her whole body.

  “Oh...” she mumbled when her mouth was clear. “That was delicious.”

  He smirked. “Yes it was.”

  “You didn’t try it.”

  “I enjoyed it anyway. Trust me.”

  This man would be the death of her. She was actually blushing, staring at her menu to hide it. “So what’s good?”

  “Ron wasn’t exaggerating. It’s all brilliant. The orecchiette is quite good, as is the calamari. Do you like calamari?”

  “Mmm, I love it.”

  “Then you should get Rita’s. Oh, but wait…there’s her cacciatore. That’s hard to pass by.” Simon scratched his eyebrow with his thumb as he scowled over the menu. His single-minded focus was adorable. She propped her chin on her hand and watched him puzzling out their order.

  “It shows,” she finally said.

  He looked up in confusion. “What does?”

  “How much you love food. You mentioned it earlier, but I can tell. It’s a passion, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged sheepishly. “I can’t really call it a passion when I don’t have time to do more than eat.”

  “Maybe one day. When you break in that fancy kitchen you told me about.”

  He grinned. “Maybe. Actually…” He hesitated and shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “No, what were you going to say?”

  “It’s… What Rick and Rita have going here is a pretty good thing.”

  “You want to run a restaurant?”

  “Maybe? Someday? I don’t know.” He shrugged, looking more uncertain than she’d seen him all day.

  “You mean you’d leave what you’re doing now?”

  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m certain to burn out at some point. Something like this wouldn’t be a bad second act. Maybe not even in New York. Someplace quieter, where life is easier.”

  She could picture it, Simon with his good looks and charm, greeting customers and suggesting wines. Maybe someplace warm and sunny. Greece or Italy… The man currently sitting across from her in his perfect navy suit looked made for the city, but it was surprisingly easy to imagine him in a setting like that, with sunkissed skin and windblown hair.

  “Sounds nice,” she said softly.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Is this what you see yourself doing in twenty years?”

  She hesitated, because, like Simon, it wasn’t so much a plan as a dream…an idle fantasy she entertained on tough days. She’d never even said it out loud before now. “Sometimes I think about owning a hotel.”

  He looked mildly surprised. “Like a Marriott or something?”

  She shook her head. “Something small, for tourists, someplace sunny. Not even a hotel, really. An inn. An old-fashioned inn.”

  “Sounds pretty modest compared to what you’re doing now.”

  She hiked an eyebrow at him. “And so does owning a restaurant.”

  He grinned and dipped his chin. “Okay, you have me there. So why do you want to run a little place like that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess… See, I work in corporate travel. I send people to destinations to broker deals or attend conferences. When I visit a place myself, the only thing I’m interested in are the meeting facilities and the high-speed internet capabilities. For once, I’d like to be there when people are celebrating birthdays or reuniting with their families or…falling in love.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “You’re a romantic, Cass.”

  She snorted. “About as much as you are, I’d bet.”

  Simon swirled the wine in his glass, watching it glint in the candlelight.

  “I am a bit of a romantic,” he said. “Why else would I be harboring a fantasy about opening a restaurant?”

  “Your restaurant sounds nice.”

  “So does your inn.”

  For a split second, her heart whispered that they would sound even better together. Which was a bad, dangerous thing. She had no business spinning fantasies about building a life with a stranger she’d just met on a plane, no matter what kind of chemistry they had.

  She cleared her throat and looked down at the menu. “Well, it’s hardly a retirement plan. And I’ll be where I am for quite a while still. I think I’m getting the calamari. What about you?”

  He hesitated briefly before looking back at his own menu. “The special, I think.”

  This thing was starting to make her lose her bearings. She knew where they were likely headed the second she agreed to have dinner with him, and that was fine. They were two consenting adults with a hefty mutual attraction and an unexpected evening free. Spending it together—even if they decided to spend all of it together—was one thing. But every time she turned around, they’d wandered down impossible conversational path
s. They’d already shared more about themselves in ten hours than she had with Mitchell in the first month of dating. And that was trouble. After all this time, she thought she was too battle-hardened to fall for a handsome face and a dreamy accent in a single heady afternoon.

  Rick came by to take their orders and within a few minutes, he returned, bringing a myriad of things on small plates “just for a taste” while they waited. They tasted all of it, and then dove into their entrees when they arrived. Simon hadn’t exaggerated about Rita’s abilities in the kitchen. Like the fig jam, every bite seemed to stimulate her whole body. Maybe it was the second bottle of wine they ordered, or maybe it was the way Simon offered her bites of things off his fork now and then, watching her mouth the entire time. She’d never felt so drunk off a meal, and she wasn’t sure anymore if it was the wine or the man.

  “Try this,” he urged, holding yet another forkful of food up for her.

  “I already tasted that.”

  “You had a bite of the pasta with a bit of sauce. This is the pork. You really need to taste it. Rita stews it all day with garlic and rosemary and—” His enthusiasm for every aspect of his meal was adorable. It wasn’t just the way it tasted. He was interested in every ingredient and how it had been made. His idle dream of a restaurant was looking like more of a calling. Hopefully he made a go of it one day.

  “Okay, okay!” she laughed. “Gimme a bite, already.”

  She leaned forward and closed her mouth around the fork. They’d already developed quite a nice little rhythm of food-sharing, just in the space of one meal.

  “Oh,” she mumbled with her mouth full.

  “See? I told you.” He grinned and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It was an unconscious and intimate gesture. It said a lot about how relaxed they’d both become that he didn’t seem to register he’d done it.

  “I’ll never doubt you again.”

  “Who knew your trust could be bought with a well-made pork ragù?”

  It was a joke, but she felt the truth of it simmer through her stomach. In reality, her trust wasn’t easily bought. It might not be available at all anymore where men were concerned. Maybe people were born with a predetermined amount of trust and once it was burned up, there wasn’t any more for anyone else who might come along. She feared that was the case with her. Mitchell had used up the last of her trust, and now she was doomed to spend her life eyeing guys like Simon with suspicion, only able to see their potential for destruction.