I blinked a few times to moisten my dry eyes and sharpen my vision. “What are you doing?” I whispered.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, lying on his side, his face less than a few feet from mine.
“So you’re staring at me?”
“Yes.” He kept staring. And then I noticed he wasn’t sweating or cringing, but really looking at me.
“Therapy,” I said, understanding the situation.
“You were asleep. Seemed like a good time.”
I smiled. Somehow, it didn’t bother me despite the absolute weirdness. Something about him just made me feel open to accepting things. “How’s it going?”
“Good, but it’s easy with you.”
“Easy how?”
“There are many things about you to like,” he replied in a low voice.
It was very sweet.
“And many things not to like.” He grinned.
“Ha-ha.”
He smiled, and it was a warm, genuine, heartwarming smile that made me wonder why he wasn’t like this all the time. And I don’t know what it was—maybe the dimmed lights and the isolating hum of the engines—but I felt like we were inside a safe cocoon, just him and I.
“What happened to you?” I whispered, wondering what could’ve caused this man to be perfect in almost every way, except for this.
“I’ll tell you, but then you’ll have to answer one of my questions.”
“What question?”
“A simple yes or no is called for.”
“Control freak.” I smiled. “Fine. Deal.”
He gazed into my eyes, and I wondered if that too was a safe zone for him.
“My mother happened,” he replied.
Oh no. Maybe I didn’t want to hear this. On the other hand, I’d asked. I couldn’t slam the door on this.
“What did she do to you?” I asked.
“She used to beat me and my older sister with wire hangers until our rooms were cleaned.”
I gasped, and then I noticed a spark of amusement in his eyes.
“Oh, you’re such an ass,” I said. “Mommy Dearest, huh?”
His smile melted away, his expression shockingly serious. “My mother was too good for wire-hanger punishments, but her obsession with perfection was always taken to the extreme. She couldn’t help herself—a behavior she passed down to me. My sister, on the other hand, just ended up being a very distrusting person.”
I remembered reading in his online bio—interview research, of course—that he had a sister who was a year older. I wondered if they were close like I was with my brother. I was about to ask when my mind suddenly made sense of what he’d just said.
“Wait. You inherited your phobia from your mother, didn’t you?” I asked.
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. And his confession hit me right in the heart. Probably because it made me sad to imagine what it might’ve been like for him. The irony was that my mother was the exact opposite. My imperfections gave her purpose.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked.
It wasn’t really a smile, it was more like a smile-frown. “Because I don’t know what my mom would do with herself if I’d been born as perfect as you.”
“Perfection is an illusion,” he said. “So now it’s your turn. Tell me why you turned down my offer for surgery.”
I suddenly didn’t want to have this conversation any more. I inhaled a deep breath and looked away from him before setting my chair upright. I was about to say something, but my thoughts and words got all jumbled up inside my head.
“I have to use the restroom,” I announced like a moron, standing up from my seat.
Mr. Cole righted his seatback and then looked at me with a frown.
I knew what he was thinking: he’d told me his truth and now I was denying him mine.
“I’ll be right back. I promise.”
He nodded, and his eyes jerked to the side, indicating he wasn’t getting up for me.
“Fine.” I rolled my eyes and stepped over him. As I passed, he took the time to grip my hips and assist.
His touch sparked a moment of sexual flutters in my stomach. I liked his hands on me. I shouldn’t, but I did. “Stop that.”
He dropped his hands and shrugged. “Just making sure you don’t fall.”
I flashed a quick little glare and made my way back to the bathroom. I really did need to go, but I also needed to gather my thoughts. Call me weak or anything you like, but his opinion suddenly mattered. No, I wasn’t trying to come up with a lie or some BS about the answer to his question; I was trying to rally the bravery to be honest with him. In the exact same way he’d been honest with me. No apologies. No shame. Just the truth. There was power in the way he didn’t allow his challenges to pull him down, and I wanted to feel the same.
I splashed a bit of cool water on my face and patted myself dry with a paper towel. You can be more than brave, Lily. You can be you and feel good about it.
I opened the door and returned to my seat, where Mr. Cole sat with two tumblers in his hands.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking the glass.
“A very fine scotch,” he replied.
I scooted past him and sat down, sniffing the very, very tall glass of strong honey-brown liquid. “Smells like gas.”
He chuckled. “If gas were this expensive, we’d be flying in a weather balloon to Milan. Try it.”
I took a sip, trying not to let the unpleasant sting of the alcohol show on my face. It was sweet and had a cinnamon-like burn, but I didn’t like it. “Mmmm…” I tried to smile.
“You don’t drink very often, do you, Miss Snow?”
“No, but it’s good to try new things.” I threw back the entire drink and handed him the glass.
He laughed. “Remind me to stock the cheap stuff for the flight home.”
Oops. I guessed I wasn’t supposed to chug it.
Following my lead, he finished his drink and set our glasses down on the seat across the aisle.
His gaze returned to me with an expectant look in his eyes.
“What?” I said.
“You know what.”
Dammit. I wasn’t going to get out of this, was I?
I bobbed my head and looked down at my hands. The scotch had an immediate effect—a warmth in my chest and little rush in my heart. I suddenly didn’t feel so awkward sharing any more. Was that why he’d given me the drink?
“The reason I don’t want to have surgery,” I finally said, “is because I’m afraid it will make me unhappy.”
He lifted both brows. “Unhappy?”
“It sounds absurd, but everyone I know has their issues, too, and they aren’t happy. At least, not most of the time. Me, on the other hand,” I shrugged, “I’ve always felt so grateful for everything.”
“Maybe because you never expected anything. The higher one strives in life, the more pressure and disappointments you’ll come across.”
“So you’re saying I’ve been happy because I haven’t set the bar high enough?” I asked. Ridiculous.
“I don’t believe for a moment that you’re pushing yourself to reach your full potential. Case in point, you applied for a position you were overqualified for.”
I stared at the seatback in front of me for a moment, trying to digest his words, the scotch now running freely through my system. Maybe he was right.
“But tell me,” I asked, “if you were free from your problem, what would be different about your life? Would you be happier?”
“Good question. I don’t know. But I will never find out until I conquer it.”
“And you really, really think I can help you do that?” I asked.
He looked ahead for a moment, his stubble-covered jaw flexing. “My therapist believes if I successfully associate positive feelings with the things that trigger my disorder, then I will overcome it.”
I snickered. “And there it is. The truth.” I hit my knee. “You wanted to bang me so you could see if it cures you.” The moment those words left my mouth, I realized how crazy it sounded.