A Royal Mess. Jill Shalvis
an inward groan, Tim waved and turned back, closing his eyes again, this time dozing off to a rousing rendition of “Old MacDonald’s Farm.”
THE NEXT TIME Tim was rudely awoken, he expected that it was Tish again, and he feigned sleep in the hope she’d ignore him.
It wasn’t Tish.
From beneath his hat he caught a glimpse of long, toned legs sporting black combat boots as the passenger plopped huffily into the seat next to him.
“Unfriggingbelievable,” muttered the jailbait juvenile delinquent from the check-in counter. She’d gotten a seat after all, and as luck would have it, right beside him.
“The seats back here are too close together.” She wriggled back and forth in an apparent attempt to make him as miserable as she was. It worked.
Her black leather mini hitched a little higher, and Tim wondered how her mother could have let her out of the house dressed like that. Could be worse, he told himself, closing his eyes once again. Could be someone who wanted to gab the entire flight—
“No one’s going to believe this.” She popped her gum so loud his ears nearly exploded. “Flying coach. Ha! I’m packed in here like a sardine.”
Ah, hell. She was someone who was going to gab the entire flight.
“How is one supposed to stretch—Ouch!” She rubbed her leg, and because they were too close together, the backs of her fingers slid against his legs as well. “This should be illegal sitting like this. I should file a complaint.”
He wasn’t going to look at her. No sirree, not going to even peek. Pressing his hat to his face, he slid farther into his seat, practically jamming his knees to his chin.
“It’s astounding, really,” she said over his groan of pain. “The luck I’ve had today.”
Who was she talking to in that voice that seemed almost…British? He risked a sideways glance from beneath his hat. Was she talking to him or the rather large woman who sat at the end of their row? Since that woman wasn’t responding and he was faking sleep, there was only one conclusion.
She was talking to herself, which meant she wasn’t just a talker, she was a crazy talker.
“I bet American royalty doesn’t have this problem,” she said. “I mean, really, when was the last time a Kennedy had to sit coach?”
Tim managed to slink a little more in the seat without further mangling his knees. He kept his eyes firmly closed.
“And how could I have gotten bumped from first class? Who do they have up there, Prince William? It’s such an insult.” She must have tipped to the side, trying to get comfortable again, because Tim felt her hair brush his arm. With it came an exotic, almost irresistible scent. Flowers and woman.
Normally he’d love that—both the sensation and the scent—but he drew the line at far-too-young, crazy women.
The plane started to move. Good. People didn’t like to talk during takeoff. At least, he didn’t. It was the ultimate sleeping time.
She didn’t speak for fifteen whole seconds. His hopes rose.
“Oh, dear.” Her voice wobbled, suddenly not sounding confident at all. “You’d think with how many times I’ve done this, I’d be better at takeoff.”
He felt her arm slide against his as she gripped the armrest between them. Soft, smooth skin. Warm to the touch.
Don’t open your eyes, Banning.
“Did you hear that sputter in the engine?” she wondered, nudging him. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to disturb you, but was that a sputter, do you think?”
Maybe a different man could have ignored that note of sharp fear in her voice, but he’d never been able to turn from someone who was afraid. Opening his eyes, he craned his neck her way. “Just normal take-off noises,” he assured her.
She stopped chewing her gum and bit her lip, hands still clenched on the armrests at her sides, which meant in the small confines they shared, her elbow was plowing into his ribs.
“Really,” he added, a little startled at the depth of her dark gold eyes. She had dark gold hair to match, even if it was spiked straight up, showing off ears that were pierced all the way up the outside. “We’re going to be fine,” he added, wanting to clear that up before his nap in order to avoid another interruption.
She nodded. Her eyes were lined in heavy black, with blue eye shadow, which matched the blue lip gloss she was nibbling off with her nerves.
In front of them, Fran the flight attendant whisked closed the curtain between first class and coach, but not before she sent Tim a saucy little wink.
Next to him, his copassenger sat up straight and pointed. “Did you see that? They were being served lunch up there! That’s my lunch! Yoo-hoo! Hello?”
Fran didn’t reappear.
Smart Fran.
“Well.” She sat back, looking genuinely surprised at being ignored. “Honestly. I’m starving back here and they’re eating.” She huffed over that a moment, then raised her voice. “I’m a starving princess, you know!”
Fran poked her head out. “Please. I’m going to have to insist you keep it down.”
“But—”
“You can have me beheaded as soon as we land if you’d like, but for now, I’m the queen.”
The curtain closed with finality.
“I really am starving,” Princess-In-Leather said to Tim, somewhat subdued now.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared at him. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“Let me guess. A starving princess?”
“Yes!” She seemed pleased, until she realized he was humoring her. “Well, this is different, not being recognized.” But she laughed and shook her head while putting on a set of headphones.
Crazy, thought Tim.
From behind them, Tish popped her head between them. “Hi!”
Princess-In-Leather smiled and removed her earphones. Loud, obnoxious noise pumped out of it. “Hi back,” she said to the little girl.
“I’m this many.” Tish leaned over the back of the seat, smacking Tim in the head when she held up five sticky fingers.
The princess nodded. “I’m that many times four plus four.”
Tim did a double take. “You’re twenty-four?”
She blinked overly made-up gold eyes at him. “How old did you think I was?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve, huh?” She took off her leather jacket, revealing a little black crop top that told him she indeed was far older than twelve.
She laughed at his expression. Tish laughed, too, and dropped her lollipop. In Tim’s lap.
Tim removed it before Tish could and mentally tossed his nap right out the window.
“Tish, sit down,” her mother called.
Yes, Tish, sit down. He stared at his companion. She smiled. He did not. He’d liked it better when she was twelve.
A different flight attendant came through the aisle, tossing each passenger a pathetically small bag of peanuts.
His hungry companion wasn’t quite quick enough on the uptake and took hers in the face. She stared down at the bag of peanuts that landed in her lap. “I hate commercial flights.”
But at least she’d forgotten her fear. That left him in the clear. Hoping for a little sleep, Tim settled back, confident she’d