She slinks back through my door, turning her nose up to the man she passes. He plays a mafia don on the show and he’s next on my list for the day. He’s older and not very attractive, far beneath her notice, but he’s a nice guy. Too nice to keep company with the likes of her, anyway, even if she wanted to. But I still hate to see her treat him like his importance ranks somewhere just beneath that of gum on the bottom of her shoe.
I smile my same polite, professional, distant smile as he takes the chair and I go about my job. It takes all my concentration to hold my mask in place, a mask that says the dark cloud over my head didn’t just get a little bit darker.
• • •
“Did you bring your umbrella?” Rogan asks when the stewardess leaves to fetch our drinks at just after six Thursday evening.
“Yes. I packed it, but are you going to tell me why I’m bringing a polka-dot umbrella to New York when the forecast isn’t even calling for rain?”
Rogan’s lips curve into that lopsided, sexy smile that I love. “Oh, it’ll rain. You’ll see.”
The stewardess returns with two flutes of champagne. “What are we celebrating?” I ask as I inhale the sweet perfume of the bubbly liquid.
Rogan’s smile wanes as he watches me until he glances down at his glass. His expression takes on a hint of sadness. “More time.”
My heart! Oh God, my heart!
I can’t find a smile to give him, so I’m glad that he isn’t looking at me for one. “To more time.”
When he looks up to clink his glass against mine, his temporary melancholy seems to have lifted. He winks and takes a long sip of the delicious fizz.
“Where the hell is Patrice?” Kurt blares from behind us.
“Maybe she, ohhh I don’t know, has a day off now and then. Ya think?” Rogan calls back in sarcastic response.
I grin when I hear his brother mutter, “Asshole.”
“He’s so spoiled. Just a few flights on a private plane and he’s a diva. ‘Where’s Patrice?’ ‘Bring me peanuts!’ ‘Somebody pull this stick out of my ass!’” Rogan mocks in his best, low-key Kurt impression. He seems gratified when I laugh. I know he likes it. He’s said as much.
A man who likes to see me smile and make me laugh. Was it ever possible that I woudn’t fall in love with him?
I think I know the answer to that. Falling for Rogan feels like it was as inevitable as the sun rising or the stars shining.
“So, is this your plane?” I ask.
“Nah. I don’t fly enough to justify one. It’s leased by the agency that represents me. I guess when you’re dumb enough to get in the ring with some of the world’s deadliest fighters in order to make them millions of dollars, they figure the least they can do is give me a comfortable flight.”
“The very least. And do they have someone on board to give you a foot massage, too?”
“Not this flight. I thought if there was any . . . massaging to be done . . .” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and I roll my eyes, even though my stomach does a flip at his insinuation.
“You’re not going to say something about the mile-high club, are you?”
“I wasn’t, but now that you brought it up, I’d love to fill you in on the, ahem, package.”
I smother a laugh, resisting the urge to look back over my shoulder and make sure Kurt isn’t listening.
“I’m sure your brother wouldn’t have anything to say about that at all.”
Rogan scowls, as though he’d forgotten about his brother that quickly. “Damn it.”
“I guess you’ll just have to be on your best behavior today. Just this once.”
Rogan huffs loudly. “Fine. I guess we can watch a movie.” Reaching for my hand, Rogan kisses my knuckles and then looks into my eyes. “You know, of all the informative little tidbits that I so pleasurably dug out of you over the last six weeks, there’s one thing I never asked. What’s your favorite movie?”
“How could you be so remiss?” I gasp in mock horror.
“I was too busy being smitten to think about movies.”
My pulse stutters, but I do my best to ignore it and act natural. “But not too busy to find out what kind of facial hair I prefer on a man?”
“Hey, that’s a legit question. Sometimes I get the urge to grow a goatee. I needed to know where you stand on the matter.”
“Why? It’s not like you were going to be around very long.”
A shadow passes over his face, a mirror of the one that has hovered over my heart all week. More inevitability.
Too many things are inevitable, it seems. Love, loss. Ecstasy, heartbreak. To have, to have not.
“Don’t say things like that. It’s like you’re not even giving us a chance.”
I’m surprised by the snap in his voice.
“It’s not that. It’s just . . .” I trail off, looking down to study my fingernails as I ponder which way to go with this conversation. We both know what’s happening, but maybe we don’t need to discuss it. Maybe we can just pretend. For a little while longer. I quickly decide not to mar what beauty might be left in our last hours and days together. I do my best to recover outwardly. I lean my head back against the plush leather seat back and turn on a bright smile for Rogan. “I’ll give us every possible chance.”
His face relaxes into its normal happy façade. “Good. I didn’t want to have to kidnap you. Now, where was I?” Rogan brings his lips back to my fingers, kissing each fingertip before softly reminding, “Favorite movie?”
God, I wish I could stay in this bubble with him forever, with things exactly as they are right now. Just me in a confined space with Rogan and his wonderful smile, his tender touch.
“Judge Dredd,” I say, deadpan.
Rogan’s reaction is comical. His head jerks up and his face scrunches. “What?”
“Yep. Cinematic genius, that one.”
His mouth hangs open limply as he stares at me like I’ve sprouted horns. “I’ll drop you off in Philly as we pass. I hope you’re good with a parachute.”
I laugh outright. I’ve never even seen Judge Dredd, but now I’m pretty sure I never will. “Fine. How about Gremlins?”
“Philly.”
“Pretty in Pink?”
“Philly.”
“Blade Runner?”
“Good God, when were you born?”
“All right, all right,” I say dropping my gaze. “I guess The Man Without a Face would be my all-time favorite.” When Rogan says nothing for several seconds, I sneak a peek up at him. He’s watching me with a sad smile.
“What’s your second favorite movie?”
I don’t hesitate. “Phenomenon.”
Rogan drops his forehead onto my hand where he still holds it inside his. “You’re killing me! Don’t you like any movies that won’t make me want to flush my head down the airplane toilet?”
I giggle. “You should’ve specified and asked what my favorite movie that you might like would be. Because in that case, I’d probably say World War Z. Rocky. Iron Man. Shall I go on?”
Rogan smiles broadly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He releases my hand to reach for a bag that rests on one of the two deep swivel chairs that face us. The plane is laid out with four captain’s chairs facing a central table and, toward the back, two small sofas on either side of the aisle. Kurt is behind us, stretched out on one of those listening to music, with his wheelchair parked beside him.
Unzipping the bag, Rogan produces nearly every movie I mentioned, except for Pretty in Pink. I wouldn’t expect a guy to have that one, but the fact that he has this many tells me there’s a spy involved. Even though I was joking about them being my absolute favorites, they are the movies that come to mind most often. Well, except for Dredd.