Or at least that’s what he’d thought.
He hadn’t counted on being seated next to the anxious brunette. She was pretty, with long, dark hair that hung past her shoulders and long, slender legs—definitely his type—but within a minute of sitting down, she’d accused him of being a terrorist and made her crash-and-burn comment.
It was going to be a long flight.
Maybe he could get the eager flight attendant to move him to coach.
After they reached cruising altitude, the airline attendant stood, and Josh grabbed her attention, not a hard thing to do since she’d kept her eye on him since before takeoff.
She walked straight toward him with a determined look. “Can I help you, Mr. McMillan?”
“I need a Jack and Coke,” he said, forgoing his planned beer. The woman next to him was already driving him crazy. He was going to need something stronger than a beer to endure her tics.
“Of course. Anything else?” The attendant flashed him a blinding smile. The name tag pinned to her uniform read “Tiffani.” Of course it did.
“I want another mimosa,” the woman next to him said.
The attendant barely acknowledged her order before spinning around to head to the galley.
When she returned, she leaned in closer than necessary to place the woman’s drink on the tray next to him. Then she set a cup of ice along with a can of Coke and a minibar bottle on his tray. “Would you like me to make it for you?”
She was certainly attractive, but she looked too high-maintenance and more his brother’s type. Josh might have been interested in her anyway at a different time, but today he didn’t need the distraction. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”
Her smile faltered as she walked away, but while he felt a little bad, there was no sense in leading her on. He was a man on a mission, and his mission currently lacked an accompanying plan.
Josh was fixing his drink when, apropos of nothing, the woman next to him asked, “Do you get along with your mother?”
He turned to her. “My mother?”
“Yeah, you know—” she waved her hand dismissively, “—the woman who raised you.”
He gave her his full attention, still confused. She looked more relaxed now, and he was sure it had something to do with the drink she’d downed before takeoff. “Maybe I was raised by two fathers,” he said, keeping a straight face.
Her eyes widened as though she’d had an epiphany. “Oh. Were you?”
“No.” He couldn’t hide a smirk.
She watched him for a second, and he studied her while he waited. Her big brown eyes weren’t entirely focused. Could she have been drinking before she boarded the plane? She didn’t seem the type, but who knew?
“So do you?” Her thin eyebrows lifted in an exaggerated arch.
“Do I what?” He’d forgotten her question as he watched her shift in her seat. Her light blue skirt hiked up to mid-thigh and stayed there, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Get along with your mother.”
He grinned, surprising himself. “Yes. I love my mother.”
She lifted her glass and the liquid sloshed around, nearly spilling over the side. “Now that’s different. Loving your mother and getting along with her are two very. Different. Things.” She waved her glass to emphasize her point.
“I guess you’re right,” he said, his mouth pursed. “My mother and I get along pretty well. Better than my brother and me.”
“You’re really, really lucky.” She took a sip of her drink and turned to the window to stare out into the clouds. When she was silent for several minutes, he decided she was done and turned to face the seat in front of him.
Josh took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and now that he was on this flight, he realized Noah was right. This caper was insane. He hadn’t even reserved a car or hotel for his time in Kansas City.
What the hell was he doing? It wasn’t like he could actually crash the Vandemeer wedding.
“Can I get you something else, Mr. McMillan?” Tiffani asked. Josh opened his eyes, a little irritated now. Wasn’t it a cardinal rule for flight attendants to leave sleeping—or possibly sleeping—passengers alone?
“No, thank you.”
“Can I have some water, please?” the woman next to him asked.
The flight attendant gave her a dirty look, then moved on to the next row. When she returned, she gave the woman her water and looked down at Josh, fluttering her lashes. “Mr. McMillan, if you change your mind, you let me know.”
“Thank you,” he said, and she walked away with a small sigh.
“Mr. McMillan,” the woman next to him singsonged in an undertone. “Will you have my babies?”
He laughed and turned to her. “She’s that obvious?”
She snorted, then asked after a pause, “Are you married, Mr. McMillan?”
He waggled his bare left fingers at her. “Nope. You?”
She looked down at the simple diamond solitaire on her left ring finger. “Nope. Very single.” Then she laughed and looked up at him with a wistful smile. “Guess why I’m going to Kansas City.”
“I have no idea.”
“Guess.”
“You’re joining the circus.”
“Nope. Guess again.” She leaned her head against the window, her eyes partially closed.
He found himself wondering again if she’d spent the morning at the airport bar. It seemed impossible that she could be so drunk off two drinks. “You’re going to join a convent.”
She laughed again and lifted her hand, showing him her ring. “I’m going home to my wedding.”
“But you just said you’re single.”
“I am. Now.” She sat up and grabbed the cup of water. “I broke up with the lying, cheating bastard six weeks ago.”
He shook his head. “I’m confused.”
She set her glass down with a thud, and water sloshed out. “I didn’t tell my mother.”
“So . . . you’re going to tell her you’re marrying an invisible man?”
Her eyes widened. “Do you think that would work?”
He chuckled. “No.”
She flopped back in her seat with a harrumph. “You’re probably right.”
“So let me get this straight: You’re going home to your wedding, which is this . . . ?”
“Saturday.” She sat up again and leaned over, then picked up his half-full glass of Coke and Jack Daniel’s and gulped it down in a couple of swigs.
He grabbed her arm and pried the now-empty glass out of her hands. “Whoa, slow down there, slugger.”
“She’ll bring you more, you know,” she mumbled, leaning over the armrest toward him, trying to take the glass back.
He moved it out of reach. “Who?”
“The flight attendant. The future Mrs. McMillan.” She burst into giggles and pointed to the glass in his hand, whispering loudly, “Those are free in first class.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But even if they weren’t, the future Mrs. McMillan would probably give them to you for free.”
“You think so?” he teased, looking down the aisle at the woman in question. “What do you think? Should I propose before I get off the plane?”