“Me, too. But we can keep it together until she gets back, right? You starting on Dad’s office?” he asked.
“I was going to, but now I’m here, I don’t know if I can face it.”
In the past, when she’d thought about how her father would have handed over the reins to the three of them, she’d always imagined it would be at least a decade away, and involve a big cake wishing her father a happy retirement. They would cut it on the production floor instead of in the office so everyone could be involved. They’d talk through her plans—the ones that included turning the distillery into a state of the art environmentally friendly masterpiece. He’d have tidied his office, removing the personal debris built up over a lifetime. The pictures of her parents’ wedding, of Jake holding a glass of his first distillation, of Olivia’s first wedding event, of Emerson’s graduation.
But now it was up to her, and she didn’t feel even close to being ready. She put her hands on her hips, and looked at the piles of papers, the tchotchkes.
Jake threw his arm over her shoulder. “I have faith in you, Em.”
Her father’s letter had assured her the same. But somehow, she didn’t feel as though she deserved the faith placed in her.
Four hours later, Emerson was at the airport ready to board. “Ms. Dyer, there was a problem with seating a family together, so with your permission, I’d like to give you an upgrade,” said the attendant.
Doing a mental high five, Emerson smiled. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”
The flight was only two and a half hours, long enough to have a drink to calm her nerves and perhaps watch a movie—anything to take her mind off the thousands of feet between her butt and the ground. Plus, she fully intended to embrace the time as her first period of enforced relaxation in months. Two and a half hours without calls, interruptions, and emails. Any work could wait until she was safely ensconced in her hotel that evening. She placed her laptop bag in the overhead compartment and slid her purse under the aisle seat in front of her.
“Wine?” asked the flight attendant.
Emerson took a glass from the tray. “Thank you.” She took a sip, acidulous flavors exploding on her tongue. It was a touch fruity for her personal tastes, but it was free and available. She switched her cellphone off and let her head fall back, eyes closed, on the headrest. Two and a half perfect hours without being bothered by a soul.
“Excuse me, you’re in my seat.”
Emerson opened her eyes with a start. A tall man, looking way too handsome for his own good in a fitted navy suit, stared at her like a rather deliciously imperious Clark Kent with his black hair a little on the long side and most definitely ruffled. He looked down at her through glasses that quite possibly made him even hotter.
“I’m sorry.” Emerson placed her glass down and pulled the ticket out of her purse. “I was upgraded; they gave me a new ticket as I boarded. Perhaps they made a mistake,” she said, wondering why she felt the need to apologize to the ungracious man glaring at her.
She looked at the ticket, then up again at the numbers above the row of seats. 3B. The aisle seat. She was in the right spot. “There must be some mistake,” she said, showing him her ticket.
The man growled. It was low, and quiet, but it was most definitely a growl. “I so don’t need this today,” he muttered under his breath, before leaning over her to press the buzzer for the flight attendant.
In spite of his rude behavior, he smelled delicious. Nothing floral. Decidedly woody. And the move revealed a shirt that fit his taut frame as if it had been painted on.
“Are you sure you aren’t in A?” Emerson offered quietly, pointing toward the empty seat next to her, not that the jerk was worth any of her time. But other passengers were looking, and she’d rather fix the problem than continue to cause a scene.
“I never sit by the window,” he said, as if that explained everything.
A flight attendant arrived and smiled so hard Emerson’s jaw ached at the sight. Perhaps, Emerson thought, she was the only one immune to Mr. Grumpy’s style of charm. “How can I help?”
Mr. Grumpy explained. Emerson offered her ticket as proof.
“I see the problem,” said the flight attendant, taking a look at both their tickets before placing her hand on Mr. Grumpy’s arm. “You’ve both been given the same seat. It’ll just be a moment while I figure this out. Please, take a seat.”
Mr. Grumpy looked at her expectantly. Emerson scoffed. He wanted her to move. And while she half expected she’d have to move back to the economy cabin any moment, she wasn’t going to make this easy for some smooth-talking idiot. Even if he did have the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
“It would make more sense for you to move over,” Mr. Grumpy said.
Emerson tucked her legs up against the seat. “There’s plenty of room for you to get by.”
“I can’t work if I sit by the window, too much light on my laptop screen,” he said, pointedly.
“What, so a woman on a plane can’t possibly be wanting to work because…?” She let the words hang.
Mr. Grumpy’s jaw twitched and, for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of dimple. “That wasn’t what I was implying.”
“Oh, so you just want it to be more convenient for you to work than me?” Damn. She hadn’t intended to work, but if she ended up staying in the aisle seat and not back in 34E, she would need to work just to make her point.
Now it was Mr. Grumpy’s turn to scoff. His glacial eyes looked toward her glass of wine for a moment, then back at Emerson. “I can only imagine how focused you’ll be.”
Standing, she quickly realized that there was still a good six inches in height between them. “Are you honestly trying to shame me and my ability to work because of one miniscule glass of wine, taken because I happen to be terrified of flying? Which, by the way, is the reason I don’t want to sit next to the goddamn window. First you get mad because of an administrative error that I did not cause. Then you invade my personal space to call for assistance… assistance you could have gained had you walked ten feet to the cabin crew. Judgmental and rude is really not a good look for you.”
Mr. Grumpy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hmm. That’s a lot to tackle in one go. You want me to take them one by one, or—”
“Problem solved,” said the flight attendant brightly. “There’s another aisle seat that’s empty over there.” She pointed to the other side of the cabin a few rows back. “Or one of you can take the window. Which would you prefer, Mr. Finch?”
Feeling somewhat embarrassed yet unapologetic over her outburst, Emerson reached for her purse. “Look, I can go back—”
“I’ll go,” Mr. Finch said, although he’d always be Mr. Grumpy to her.
“Thank you,” the flight attendant said, casting a look in Emerson’s direction, as if she’d been the problem all along. “We’re grateful for your cooperation.”
Silently seething and mortified, Emerson sat back down.
“Thanks for taking your seat, Ms. Dyer. Mr. Finch, if you’d like to go and take your seat, we’ll be departing shortly.”
Mr. Grumpy’s demeanor shifted. His spine straightened and his pale eyes glared at Emerson. He spun on his heel and marched in the direction without another word.