Better Than Chocolate (Sweet Somethings Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter 4

An Unexpected Flight Companion

Traffic at the airport exit is a nightmare, and full panic sets in as I pull into the last visible space in the parking lot. The lots are open twenty-four hours a day, and even though you can’t pass through the exit gate without your ticket and payment, I worry about my car being stolen. Which is why I always leave it at Sadie and Ryan’s house.

After dragging my suitcase from the back, I lay my arms across the hatch. “Please be here when I get back.”

To reassure myself, I press the
Lock
button enough times to elicit three beeps of my horn. Anti-theft alarm activated. It’s all I can do to protect my car from here on out.

By the time I print my boarding pass, check my luggage, and suffer through security, thirty minutes remain before my flight boards in the terminal on the opposite side of the airport.

This is the part of air travel I loathe with the proverbial fire of a thousand suns. Slinging my messenger bag across my body and checking the double knots in my sneaker laces, I begin the mad dash across the terminals to my gate. As only someone with my luck would expect, it’s the last one.

The gate attendant takes a step back as I barrel toward her, boarding pass extended before me. Wary of my breathless weaving, she scans the barcode. I’m certain the little light will turn red, indicating that I’m at the wrong gate for the wrong flight.

The scanner beeps, rather than buzzing.

Green light go.

“Enjoy your flight.” She hands back my boarding pass.

With a relieved smile, I amble down the jet bridge and give the flight attendant a nod before turning toward the coach section of the plane. Just about every seat is filled, along with most of the overhead compartments. I squeeze down the aisle, shooting apologies to the two people I bump with my bag. I’m halfway down the length of the plane before I realize my seat number is nowhere to be seen.

The flight attendant approaches, surprisingly quick on her high heels. “May I help you find your seat, miss?”

Mouth open, puzzled, I show her my boarding pass.

Her frown, likely due to my holding up the entire pre-flight check, flips into a toothy grin. “Oh, you’re in the wrong section.”

Air travel sucks. “Wrong section?”

She beckons me. “This way.”

Clutching my boarding pass, I hurry after her as fast as the narrow aisle allows. I bump at least five people this time and try to ignore the dirty look from the harried mom wrangling two toddlers. The flight attendant finally pauses near the plane’s door, and I half expect her to send me back into the terminal. Instead, she draws aside the curtain separating First Class from the rest of the air travel peons.

If she smiles any wider, she might break her face.

“I . . . uh . . .”

This must be an alternate universe. I have never flown First Class in my life. Am I the only wedding guest flying this way? Maybe I should rethink my preconceived notions about Nelson Mattingly. Either he’s showing off for Sadie, or he’s so stinking rich he can’t conceive of anyone flying coach. Based on what little Sadie told me, I’d go with the latter.

The flight attendant’s smile turns wooden again. Now I really am holding up the flight.

“Thanks,” I manage, easing past her.

The curtain drops behind me, and I swear the cabin air is different up here. Like it’s been cycled through a purifier. Forget about the cushy leather seats. I’ve only glimpsed these seats through that exclusionary curtain, never dreaming I would ever have the chance to sink into one. As I start down the aisle, which is considerably wider than the one in coach, only one thought crosses my mind.

I’m not dressed for First Class.

While I doubt they’ll kick me out for my messy French braid, minimalist makeup, and the Green Day T-shirt I’ve had since college, I expect more than one disapproving stare from the men in business suits occupying the rest of the seats. I hold my messenger bag to my chest, hiding the logo on my shirt, and scan the seat numbers.

“Ah, 3A.” I breathe in relief.

Plus—bonus—I get the window seat. Except, it requires me to climb over one of the aforementioned businessmen. At least he’s not wearing his suit coat and tie. I clear my throat, and he looks up at me.

Awfully familiar eyes. Like semi-sweet chocolate chips.

“Carmella?”

“Ryan!” My voice comes out a mere croak.

I drop my bag back to my side. Ryan certainly won’t judge me for my taste in music. Heat filters into my cheeks when he rises and makes room for me to slip by. I still can’t get my voice to work right as he takes my bag and stows it in the overhead compartment.

This cannot be happening to me. This is a disaster. I’m on my way to Sadie’s wedding—her elopement! And her new fiancé booked my First Class seat next to her ex-fiancé, who also happens to be one of my best friends. What are the odds? Is this what MaMére meant about the devil finding me on this trip? Or is it just bad luck?

Ryan settles next to me and I busy myself with buckling my seatbelt.

“What are you―” he begins.

I shush him, pointing to the front of the plane where the flight attendants are starting the pre-flight safety lecture. His eyes burn a hole in the side of my head, but I maintain my attention on how to turn my seat cushion into a floatation device in the event of a crash over open water. Once the flight attendants sit down and buckle themselves in for take-off, I close my eyes and lean back. The plane taxis onto the runway. According to the pilot, we’re third in line for take-off.

“Carmella―”

“Shut up until we’re in the air.”

Flying is not my preferred method of travel, but I’m okay between take-off and landing. Unless we encounter turbulence. This is the first time in at least eight years I haven’t flown by myself—that is, without someone I know sitting beside me. Ryan’s presence calms me down, and I can focus on the craptastic problem at hand, rather than the jet engines revving up and that weird stomach-lurching moment when the plane lifts off the ground.

Ryan taps my arm. “Why are you on a flight to San Juan?”

I peer at him, my eyes narrow slits. “Why are you?”

A rhetorical question. Although his suit coat is probably in the overhead bin, safe inside a garment bag, his dress pants, crisp white button-down shirt, and Italian leather shoes tell me everything.

He answers anyway. “I have a conference over the next couple days. I have to go straight from the airport to my first meeting.”

The plane levels out, as does my head, and I wriggle to sit up straight. “They could at least let you check into your hotel first.”

“Well, fortunately the conference is at my hotel.”

“It’s a pretty fast trip.” I press my face to the window glass, squinting against the glare.

He shifts in his seat. “I had some vacation time coming, so I extended the trip through the middle of next week.”

So he’s not the only one who decided on a Caribbean adventure in the wake of his and Sadie’s breakup. I close my eyes, glad I didn’t say it out loud.

“Carmella, why are you going to Puerto Rico by yourself?”

The advantages of having Ryan for a flight companion have just turned moot. There’s no way to avoid this discussion. The flight’s too long. “I’m on my way to St. Croix.”

There. I said it. Sort of.

“What’s in St. Croix?”

His voice is low, and when I glance at him, he looks away. His jaw shifts, his profile a stern mask.

“I think you already know,” I answer slowly.

“Sadie.”

“How much do you know?”

He still won’t look at me. “I know she took half of our honeymoon money and sprinted off to tour the Caribbean. I know she’s been gone almost a month.” He taps his fingers on the ends of the armrests. “I know she’s getting married.”

I twist in my seat, grabbing his wrist. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. So. Sorry.”

He pats my hand with a rueful smile. “For what? It’s not your fault.”

“But I should have kept in better touch, or I should have noticed something was wrong when I visited you guys in April.” My memory races back to my visit. Did I notice anything wrong then?

The short answer is no. But now that I think about it, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time with them together. Ryan was in the middle of a huge project at his civil engineering firm, working crazy hours, so Sadie and I puttered around Atlanta by ourselves. In fact, the only time I really saw them together was at the birthday party they threw for me.

I squeeze his wrist. “What happened? Why didn’t one of you call me?”

“It wasn’t just one thing, Carmella. And I didn’t call because I figured Sadie would. But apparently, she was in too much of a hurry to get to a beach.” His voice holds less bitterness than I might expect. He almost sounds amused, like this is just one of Sadie’s usual antics.

“You could’ve called me, Ryan. I’m your friend, too.”

“I didn’t want―” He breaks off as the flight attendants come down the aisle to take drink orders. He asks for two rum-and-Cokes, then turns back to me once the attendant moves on. “I didn’t want to put that on you. Tess had that huge wedding, and you said you’d be up to your eyeballs in . . . What was it? Buttercream and baby’s breath?”

The attendant returns, passing two glasses—real ones, because this is First Class—of alcohol-laden soda. I wait until she moves on before speaking again. “Do you seriously think I wouldn’t have had time for you?”

“That’s just it.” He sips his drink. “You would have made time, felt like you had to drop everything and rush up to Atlanta to apply the world’s biggest Band-Aid to the situation. It wouldn’t have been fair to Tess, who needed you, and it wouldn’t have been fair to you, either.”

“Fair?” I glance around, embarrassed by the irritated glare of the man across the aisle. I lean toward Ryan, lowering my voice. “The only thing that’s not fair about any of this is Sadie ditching you for no good reason!”

His eyes lock onto mine. I can’t read his expression, and I can’t breathe until he looks away.

“How do you know there wasn’t a good reason?” He sips again, tapping his fingers on the tray table. “What did she say?”

I take a huge gulp from my glass before remembering that it’s not straight Coke. “Nothing. She completely avoided the whole topic. All she wanted to talk about was―”

Oh, shit. Shut up, Carmella!

Ryan
hmphs
, then downs the rest of his drink. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. When do you catch your connecting flight?”

“Day after tomorrow. I have to stay two nights in San Juan.”

“What hotel?”

The soda fizzes under my nose as I hold it there, thinking. “The Arena Dorada Resort and Casino.” The melting ice has watered down my drink, though the rum is still pretty potent. “I checked out their website, it looks pretty swanky.”

“It is.” His fingers tap again. “The Arena Dorada, huh. Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Ice clinks in my empty glass as I set it down. “Don’t tell me that’s where you’re going for your conference!”

He chuckles, covering his mouth with one hand.

“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” I mutter, slumping back in my seat.

The remainder of the flight passes in relative silence. I alternate my attention between my book and the in-flight movie, which I actually enjoy because the headphones are free for First Class passengers. Beside me, Ryan concentrates on putting finishing touches on a presentation for his conference, his eyebrows drawn together.

When the movie flickers off, I hurry to adjust my seat for our landing.

“What are you reading?” Ryan asks, putting his laptop on standby.

I show him the cover of the Civil War history tome and wait for the commentary.

“Didn’t you get enough of this stuff in college? You’re supposed to be on vacation, Miss History.”

“This from the person who has a Master’s in historic preservation.”

The plane lurches, and the book drops between my feet. I slam one hand against the window and grab Ryan’s sleeve with the other. Stifling his laughter, he detaches my clawed hand from his arm, resettling it between both of his.

“It’s just the landing gear, Carmella.”

“This is the worst part of flying.”

“I thought airport security was the worst part.”

I glance at him and try to take even breaths. “This is the part when you’re most likely to crash and die in an inferno of jet fuel.”

“You’re more likely to die in a car crash. Where do you get your statistics?”

“I make them up.”

He strokes my fingers, one at a time, and I almost forget the shudders of the plane as it descends. “Do you always grab onto your seatmate like that?”

“Usually I just cling to the armrests and pray.” My breathing is returning to normal, not so frantic.

He continues to massage my hand, the way he used to when I would freak out about term papers in college.

He lightly flicks my ear, then points out the window. “You’re missing it, Carmella.”

Off to our left, the city spreads to the coast, a maze of twisting streets, rooftops, and high rises. Ryan points out some of the landmarks. I can just make out the guard towers on the corner of the old city wall, leading to the fort, Castillo San Felipe del Morro. Beyond the city, the Atlantic Ocean shimmers in the haze. Between the blue sky and the waving palm trees, it’s all so surreal.

And St. Croix is supposed to be even more beautiful.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I murmur.

Ryan gives another of his short laughs. I only jump a little in my seat when the wheels touch down on the tarmac.

First Class deplanes before coach, and Ryan guides me ahead of him through the jet bridge. I freeze when I exit the gate. A cacophony of foreign languages echoes in the terminal. Mostly Spanish, but there’s some English, French, and maybe German mixed in. It’s distracting, and I have no idea which way to go.