Tell Me a Fantasy

Chapter Five

For the next fifteen minutes, as everyone finished boarding, Colin and I made small talk. He had replied to my typical, banal question—what do you do—and was talking about being a real estate developer when he got a call. Out of politeness, I turned to the window and tried not to listen to his conversation.

It had something to do with a proposed building in London, I gleaned. Since it was wrong of me to eavesdrop, I again stared out the window and not at his face, which I'd discovered was all cheekbones and sharp jaw and luscious full lips that I couldn't help but imagine on mine.

"Sorry for that," he said, hanging up. I whipped my head to look at him, startled by my brief fantasy. I'd noticed that his conversational manners were impeccable. A rarity these days. That probably explained my attraction to him.

"So, Samantha. I must ask a question, and forgive me if I'm being too forward."

"By all means, Colin." I smiled without showing any teeth.

"Why didn't you bring someone with you if you're so afraid of flying?"

I rearranged the magazine in the seat-back pocket, aligning it with the duty-free catalog. "I said no to the initial invitation from the organizers of London Fashion Week. But then Karl called..." I sighed. "And I couldn't say no."

"Karl?" His eyebrow quirked up. "Your boyfriend?"

"Lagerfeld. The designer."

"Ah."

"Karl called a week ago and demanded that I attend. It was my initial plan to skip the event, kind of like Bob Dylan and the Nobel."

I paused to see if he'd laugh. He chuckled.

"And my assistant—well, all of my assistants are already in London. The one who stayed behind in Palm Beach is sick with the flu and she couldn't travel."

"And there was no one else? No significant other who could help soothe your nerves?"

"No. No significant other to accompany me." I almost followed that up with the word unfortunately, but I didn't. I was raised not to sound like a desperate woman, and my mentor Clementine—the woman who'd given me the initial loan for my business — had always told me that talented, smart women should never, ever act desperate for a man.

I opened my mouth to tell Colin that I was determined to overcome my fear of flying, but the attendant's voice came over the PA system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, double-check your seatbelts. We've been cleared for departure."

It was all I needed to hear for my heart rate to spike. The plane rolled along the tarmac, then to a stop, in preparation for takeoff. I must have looked alarmed because Colin leaned in.

"Samantha. Samantha?"

"Sorry. I'll try to get a grip on myself."

I was trying so hard not to lose control around this man, around the entire cabin full of people in first class who had already fallen asleep or looked bored.

Why couldn't I act like a normal person?

It was a question my ex-husband had posed to me over and over, usually in snide and mocking tones.

"There's no need for apologies."

The plane assumed its place on the runway. I glanced at Colin. He was busy unbuttoning the sleeves of his shirt. It's a known fact that when men roll up their sleeves, they are a hundred percent more attractive. For Colin, it was more like a thousand percent. Something about his forearms, muscular and encased in the crisp white fabric near the elbow, made me stare.

I was surely acting this scattered out of a combination of fear, anti-anxiety meds that made me loopy, and champagne. While I could coolly admire the beauty of men during my parties and during model selections from the safety of my sprawling home office, it had been years since I'd swooned over a man's looks.

"Here." Colin again patted his now-bare forearm. "Hold on right here."

"No, no, I'm fine." But as I gulped in several breaths and the engine roared, I glanced at his arm another time.

"You're trembling. Poor thing," he murmured.

I'd reached up and was fiddling with my gold hoop earring when he clasped my wrist and placed my hand on his arm. It was an intimate gesture, one I might have found forward under other circumstances. But it wasn't done in a lecherous way. No, there was genuine concern in his touch.

I rested my fingers on his warm skin.

Then I dug in with my nails as the plane's engines thundered and the jet gained speed down the runway. I hated the noise of takeoff, the loud rumble and the bouncing.

"Quite a grip you've got there."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

I wanted to explain about the panic attacks, how it felt like the plane would explode and we'd be left with nothingness, how everything seemed hyper-real and scary. How I wished I'd never left my cocoon of home, with my luxury and my dog and my safety.

How I hated myself for being a smart, driven businesswoman who could do almost anything but control my emotions and fears in certain circumstances. Like this one. I turned to the window to see us zoom past the airport terminal.

"Don't be sorry." Colin leaned in, breaking the spell of the speed. "Hey. Hey. Look at me instead of out the window. We're going to be okay."

I whipped my head to look at Colin and stared into his blue eyes. The plane was fast. Too fast. I swallowed a lump lodged in my throat.

"It's okay to cry. Keep gripping my arm. Make me bleed if you need to."

I let out a whimper as the jet lifted into the air. I knew the plane would smash into the ground in a second or two. My stomach plunged toward my feet. "Is everything okay? With the plane, I mean?"

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