Page 6 of Stick to the Deal
I almost expect a scene, but the woman simply pulls her ticket from the side pocket of her backpack and hands it to the attendant with a smile. A bright pink key chain that resembles a champagne bottle swings from the bag zipper.
The air hostess’s eyes scan the ticket and grow wide. “Apologies, miss. May I get you anything? We should be taking off shortly.”
“Mimosa, please.” I’m not sure which surprises me more, her low sultry voice or the fact she had the guts to order alcohol when I did not. Now that she’s facing me, I can study her face from the corner of my eye. Clear skin on an oval face with high cheekbones and dark almond eyes. A straight, slightly button nose over full lips. She is beautiful.
My seatmate settles in and secures her seat belt. The attendant quickly returns with the requested drink. Her first sip is followed by a satisfied sigh. The sound sends a curl of heat through my belly. I rub at the spot and drink my coffee.
“If you insist on judging me, this is going to be a long flight.” Her voice startles me and I turn to find her regarding me with a raised brow. Amusement and maybe a little annoyance glitters in her eyes. This close, they’re not as dark as I first thought, more hazel than brown.
“Jealous, actually.” Now why the bloody hell did I say that? She laughs, and the sound is smooth as silk. Who the hell is this woman?
Any further discussion is staunched by the pilot announcing our preparation for takeoff. We both focus on finishing our beverages before the attendant whisks through the cabin to collect them. My stomach drops as the plane picks up speed and I fist my hands on my legs. It doesn’t matter how many times I do this, it never gets easier. Man simply wasn’t made to fly. I focus on the safety video until the aircraft levels out.
“Not much of a flier, huh?” She’s scrolling on her phone, looking as if she hasn’t a care in the world. My lip curls as I read the title of the website: Whisper Wire. The gossip rag is the very thing I hate about media and so-called journalism.
I merely grunt and concentrate on my breakfast instead of the human chaos factory beside to me. The meal is over all too quickly, and with no more excuses, I pull the dreaded dossier from my bag. A snort next to me stirs the festering annoyance within.
“Can I help you?” I turn my best sardonic peer of the realm look on her.
Nonplussed, she draws an identical bright blue folder from her backpack. “Small world.” Her lips twist in a carefree smile full of amusement. At my sake?
I’ve never had cause to doubt Foster before, but what the hell kind of second-rate matchmaker did he engage if little Miss Nuisance is also a client?
My silence only amuses her more, a mischievous glint sparkles in her eye. “You know, I could probably help you weed out some of those profiles.”
“Is that so?”
“The shit debutantes say behind closed doors would amaze you. At the very least, I can steer you away from the batshit crazy ones. I don’t know you, but we obviously run in the same circles.”
I’m about to cut her down, ask her what she could possibly know about my circles when my eyes narrow on her shoes. She’s taken to curling up in her chair, like a cat settling in. The white sneakers I’d dismissed clearly say Jimmy Choo on the heel. Scanning the rest of her outfit, I realize that while casual, every article is a luxury brand. Guess my nanny was right about not judging a book by its cover. “What’s in it for you?”
Her smile spreads, sensing impending victory. “You can do the same for me, review my file and tell me who to avoid.” She holds the folder out to me, holding my gaze confidently.
“And what exactly are you looking to avoid?” I take her folder and hand her mine before I can have second thoughts. There is no downside to her offer. I’ll still examine every profile, but she can help me prioritize the order of that investigation. Narrow it down a bit.
“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her sparkling wine as she thinks. “Obviously your closet abusive types, megalomaniacs.”
My lips quirk despite myself. “Obviously.”
“But also the ones looking for a Suzy Homemaker.”
“You’re not the stay at home type? Don’t want children?”
“It’s not that. Kids are great and all. I simply have my own aspirations and I refuse to give them up because I’m expected to marry.”
My eyes narrow hearing words I’ve thought a dozen times in the last 72 hours. “Parents pressuring you?”
The energy around her dims slightly and I’m almost sorry I said the wrong thing. Just as quickly, the emotion flickers away. “Grandmother. You?”
“Father. Ok, you have a deal, miss...?”
“Call me Nic.” She extends her hand.
My hand engulfs her long, thin fingers. Her grip is cool and surprisingly firm for a socialite. My palm tingles lightly as I retract it. “Bancroft.”
She salutes me before turning to my folder in front of her.
What have I done?
