"I have to readjust my mental image of you if you're rich."
"Why? I'm still me."
"Your parents have that huge house in Beverly Hills." I lean to the left—I have the window seat—until I'm pressed against the arm rest. I want to forget all the ugly thoughts in my head—it's only two days until Penny's rehearsal dinner, until I might lose him. I want to be lost in the moment with him. "That's already one strike against you."
"Most women consider wealth an upside."
"Most guys want lap dances from busty strippers." I run my fingers through his hair. "Most doesn't matter."
He nods true.
"How much do you make?"
His wavy hair falls in front of his eyes as he shakes his head. "Not going there."
"Guesstimate it for me."
"What about not going there makes you think I will?"
"The look in your eyes."
"I'm thinking about you in a bikini."
My lips curl into a smile. "Yeah?"
"No." His fingertips brush my wrist. He draws those same lazy circles. "I'm thinking about making you come under." He nods to the blanket tucked into the seatback pocket.
My cheeks flush. My body begs me to call his bluff. But I can't.
There's no way I can stay quiet.
There's no way I can relax enough to feel it.
That awful scene—Ryan standing up as Penny walks down the aisle, shooting her that it's me look, and whisking her into the sunset—is still playing in my head.
Those are nerves.
There's no way that's happening.
There's no way I'm letting my fear of losing him keep me from paradise.
"What are you thinking?" He draws a heart on my forearm.
I love you. I need you to tell me you love me. I'm not sure I can do this if I don't know you love me. "Nothing important."
"Bullshit."
"Is it that much?"
He arches a brow.
"Your salary."
"Don't have a salary. I make a quarter what the shop makes."
"I know what the shop makes."
"I know."
"That is a lot."
He laughs. "I guess arguing won't help my case. My parents don't think they're rich either."
"Business degree paid off."
"They'll be proud."
"Are they?"
"I don't know. Maybe." His eyes fix on mine. "Your mom?"
"I don't know. Maybe she follows me on Instagram. But then what would she be proud of?"
"You mostly post your hair and makeup."
"And boobs."
"Do you get creepy messages?"
"Sometimes."
"Like what?"
"Oh baby, come to my place. I'm not like those boys you've been with. I know how to handle a real woman." I drop the put-on voice. "I assume that's something about how I'm old. Or curvy. Or both." I drift back into my creepy-PMer impression. "I'm gonna come on those gorgeous tits."
"Not bad."
I shoot him my best side-eye.
He laughs. "Just saying. Guy's got game."
"Why do I care that he's gonna come?"
"Where's your generosity?"
"Oh my God. Don't even—"
"What if I pinned you to that chair and whispered—" He leans over the arm rest. Plants his hands on my shoulders. Brings his lips to my ear. "On your knees, baby. I'm gonna come on those gorgeous tits."
Uh…
His chuckle flows into my ears.
"I, uh… that's different."
"How?"
"It's you."
The flight attendant stops in front of us. Clears her throat. "Seatbelts on, please." She points to the fasten seatbelt sign.
Ryan flashes her a million-dollar smile.
She blushes, but shakes it off. Walks away with a mmm, if only he was single sigh.
"She wants to fuck you," I say.
"Who doesn't?"
"I like confident Ryan."
"I've never doubted my fuckability."
"Even when you lost all that weight?"
He laughs, but there's a sadness to it. "You got something against skinny guys?"
"No. But… you're…"
"You wouldn't have fucked me twenty pounds lighter?"
"No. I just… You know what women are like. We don't want to feel bigger than a guy."
"Shallow."
"Look at you."
"Look at me?"
"You're dating me."
He laughs. "You're actually admitting your gorgeous?"
"No. That my tits are amazing."
"That idiot on Instagram wasn't enough to convince you?"
I shake my head.
He leans in to brush his lips against my neck. "All of you is amazing, Leigh." He nips at my skin. Moves higher. Higher. Higher. His lips close around my earlobe. "I am gonna come on your tits."
"Here?"
"No. In the hotel."
"Oh."
"Unless that's a problem."
"Not at all."
"Good." He shifts into his seat just in time for the beverage tray to reach our row.
The flight attendant smiles at Ryan. "Anything to drink?"
"Water." He looks to me. "You?"
"Vodka."
He shoots me some serious side-eye. "It's noon."
"So?"
He shrugs fine. "Your body."
I turn to the flight attendant. "And water." Yes, he has a point about my tendency to drink my feelings. And about how I probably should be stricter about avoiding that, what with my genetic predisposition to alcoholism.
But it's still my body.
The flight attendant hands my drinks over first.
Ryan pulls down his tray table. Arranges everything then hands over my water.
The flight attendant moves onto the next row.
"Would you?" I ask.
"Would I what?"
I motion to her.
"If I don't want lap dances from strippers, you really think I want a one-night stand with a stranger?"
"It sounds so reasonable when you explain it."
"It is reasonable."
"So you say." I wrap my fingers around my water. Take a long sip. "We have all day today."
He nods.
"And tomorrow."
"Most of Saturday. Until the rehearsal dinner."
My stomach twists. Reality is ugly. It's much better hanging out in some fantasy world where Ryan and I are going to Hawaii to celebrate how much we enjoy fucking each other.
"We can skip it."
I shake my head.
"We can skip the fucking wedding if you want."
"No." I can handle it. In theory. "Your parents will be there."
"So?"
"They hate me already."
He brings his plastic cup to his lips. Takes a long sip of his ice water. "They'll love you."
"You sure?"
"When they see how happy you make me, yeah."