Page 12 of Holiday Romance
“Had a fight with your boyfriend?” she asks, and I grit my teeth, risking a glance over my shoulder to find Andrew looking right at me.
I immediately spin around, slumping so he can’t even see the back of my head.
But it doesn’t matter. I still feel his eyes on me the entire flight.
* * *
Now
I toss the magazine back onto Andrew’s lap, taking in his sweater, a clashing red-and-green monstrosity, with resigned acceptance.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, gesturing to his face.
“Oh, this?” Andrew strokes his chin. “My manly scruff because I’m a manly man?”
“Are you growing a beard?”
“The fact that you have to ask that question makes me want to lie and say no.”
It’s going to be a great beard and we both know it. I’ve just never imagined him with one before. I always thought his face was too open for one, with that stupid dimple in his left cheek and those ridiculous eyes that seem to change color whenever they want to.
“What happens in the summer when you tan but then decide to shave and your face is two different colors?”
“Would you believe I haven’t thought about that?”
I smile but can’t keep it up for long. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had some things I needed to finish up at work.”
“Pretty sure late is me in the air and you on the ground. The plane’s still there in case you missed the big tube thing outside.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” I drop into the seat next to him and hand over the envelope I’d kept in my pocket for the last few days.
“This doesn’tfeellike diamonds,” he jokes, pretending to weigh it.
“It’s a first-class upgrade.”
His amusement fades as he stares at me. “Come again?”
“I think the lounge will be manic, but we can check—”
“How much did this cost?” He sounds horrified as he opens it, drawing out the tickets like they’re from Willy Wonka himself.
“Don’t worry about it. Less than you think.”
“Moll, Christmas prices are bad enough—”
“I said don’t worry about it,” I interrupt. “Do you know how many unused air miles I had? I had to spend them on something. Besides, it’s our ten-year anniversary.”
“Ten?” He frowns as I start to feel a little hurt. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! Our first flight was ten years ago. That’s an anniversary.”
“Can’t be more than seven.”
“It’s ten! It’s—” My mouth clamps shut as he holds up his fist between us, a gold chain dangling from his clenched fingers. At the bottom of it, glinting in the fluorescent light, is a small blue pendant.
“Happy ten-year anniversary,” he says as I take it.
“You’re a jerk,” I mutter, but there’s no heat to the words as I admire my present. Simple and small and perfect for me.
