By the time it was ten minutes after take off, Shantel had stared out the window long enough to count every blinking light on the wing tip and reconsider every sharp word she'd flung at Richard.
The hum of the engines was now a background lullaby to the noisy guilt thudding in her chest.
She sipped her water—now tragically warm—and dared another peek at the man behind her.
But he was not behind her as she'd first thought, but diagonally across, in the seat she'd pointed out like some cold-hearted airline marshal.
He was slouched with dramatic precision, one arm draped over the armrest like a man dying of emotional turbulence. His eyes were shut and lips pursed as if he was composing a monologue about heartbreak.
She turned away before she did something foolish, but she ended up giving in to the foolishness of her emotions.
