Home > The Stopover (The Miles High Cl(2)

The Stopover (The Miles High Cl(2)
Author: T L Swan

I stare at him for a moment; I should ask him a question now. “Are . . . you going home?” I say.


I nod, unsure what to say next, so I choose the lame option and stare back out the window.

The attendant walks around with a bottle of champagne and glasses.

Glasses. Since when do airlines give you a real glass?

Oh right, first class. I knew that.

“Would you like some champagne to take off with, sir?” the flight attendant asks him. I notice that her name tag says JESSICA.

“That would be lovely.” He smiles and turns to me. “Make that two, please.”

I frown as she pours two glasses of champagne and passes one to him and one to me. “Thank you.” I smile.

I wait for Jessica to move out of earshot. “Do you always order drinks for other people?” I ask.

He looks surprised by my statement. “Did it bother you?”

“Not at all,” I huff. Damn this Mr. Fancy Pants for thinking he can order for me. “I do like to order my own drinks, though.”

He smiles. “Well, you can order the next ones, then.” He raises his glass to me and smirks; then he takes a sip. He seems amused by my annoyance.

I stare at him deadpan. This could be victim number two of my cutting today. I am not in the mood for some rich old bastard to boss me around. I sip my champagne as I look out the window. Well, he’s not really old. Maybe mid- to late thirties. I mean, old compared to me; I’m twenty-five. But whatever.

“I’m Jim,” he says as he holds his hand out to shake mine.

Oh God, now I have to be polite. I shake his hand. “Hi, Jim. I’m Emily.”

His eyes dance with mischief. “Hello, Emily.”

His eyes are big, bright blue, and dreamy, the kind I could get lost in. But why is he looking at me like that?

The plane begins to travel slowly down the runway, and I look between the earphones and armrest. Where do these plug in? They’re high tech, the kind that overconfident YouTubers use. They don’t even have a cord. I look around. Well, this is stupid. How do I plug them in?

“They’re Bluetooth,” Jim interrupts me.

“Oh,” I mutter, feeling stupid. Of course they are. “Right.”

“You haven’t flown first class before?” he asks.

“No. I got an upgrade. Some weirdo threw my bag across the airport when he was drunk. I think the guy at the desk felt sorry for me.” I give him a lopsided smile.

He rolls his lips as if amused and sips his champagne; his eyes linger on my face as if he has something on his mind.

“What?” I ask.

“Perhaps the guy at the desk thought you were gorgeous and upgraded you to try to impress you.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” I sip my champagne as I try to hide my smile. That’s an odd thing to say. “Is that what you would do?” I ask. “If you were at the desk, would you upgrade women to impress them?”


I smirk.

“Impressing a woman you’re attracted to is crucial,” he continues.

I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up with the conversation. Why does that statement sound flirty? “And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated.

His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.”

The air crackles between us, and I bite my lip to hide my goofy smile.

“You’re trying to impress me?” I ask.

He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “How am I doing?”

I smirk, unsure what to say.

“I’m simply saying that you’re attractive, nothing more and nothing less. Don’t read into it. It was a statement, not a question.”

“Oh.” I stare at him, lost for words. What do I even say to that? Statement, not a question . . . huh? Don’t read into it. This guy is weird . . . and utterly gorgeous.

The plane begins to take off with speed, and I hold on to my armrests and scrunch my eyes shut.

“You don’t like takeoffs?” he asks.

“Do I look like I like takeoffs?” I wince as I hang on for dear life.

“I love them,” he replies casually. “I love the feeling of power as it surges forward. That g-force throwback.”

Okay . . . why is everything coming out of his mouth sounding sexual?

God, I need to get laid . . . stat.

I exhale and stare out the window as we go higher and higher. I don’t have the energy for this guy to play cute today. I’m tired, I’m hungover, I look crappy, and my ex is a douche. I want to go to sleep and wake up next year.

I decide I’ll watch a movie. I begin to flick through the choices on the screen in front of me.

He leans over and says, “Great minds think alike. I’m watching a movie too.”

I fake a smile. Just stop being all hot and in my space. You’re probably married to a vegan yoga nut who does meditation and shit.

“Great,” I mutter deadpan. I should have flown coach; at least I wouldn’t have had to inhale the scent of beautiful man for eight long, sexless hours.

I scroll through my screen and then narrow it down to my choices.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

Pride and Prejudice.

The Heat.

Jumanji . . . well, that has the Rock in it—it has to be good.

Notting Hill.

The Proposal.

50 First Dates.

Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Pretty Woman.

Sleepless in Seattle.

Magic Mike XXL.

I smile at the choices, all of my favorites lined in a row; this flight is going to be a dream. I haven’t seen the sequel to Magic Mike yet, so I might start with that one. I glance over to look at what Jim has picked, and I see the heading come up.


Ugh . . . a political movie. Who watches that stuff for fun? I should have known he’d be boring.

He reaches up and taps the screen, and I catch sight of his watch. A chunky silver Rolex. Ugh, and he has money too.


“What are you going to watch?” he asks.

Oh no . . . I don’t want to appear ditzy. “I’m not sure yet,” I reply. Damn you . . . I want to watch men strip. “What are you watching?” I ask.

“Lincoln. I’ve been meaning to see it for a long time.”

“Sounds boring,” I say.

He smiles at my answer. “I’ll let you know.” He puts his earphones on and begins to watch his movie, and I scroll through my choices again. I really want to watch Magic Mike XXL. Does it matter if he sees? No . . . that’s just embarrassing. It makes me look desperate.

Who am I kidding? I am desperate. I haven’t seen a dick in over a year.

I tap on The Proposal. I’ll swap one fantasy for another. I’ve always dreamed of having Ryan Reynolds as my personal assistant. The movie begins, and I smile at the screen. I love this movie. No matter how many times I watch it, I always laugh. Gammy is my favorite.

“You’re watching a romance?” he asks.

“A rom-com,” I reply. For God’s sake, this guy is nosy.

He smirks as if he’s better than me.

“More champagne?” the flight attendant asks.

Blue Eyes looks over at me. “Here’s your chance to order for us.”

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