She arched an eyebrow at me, her eyes flicking down to my lips, then back up. “She said that? Perfect together?”
My lips curled into my most charming smile. “She did. Ask her.”
She searched my face, no doubt taking in my rugged good looks. But then she grimaced and turned away. “You’re definitely not my type.”
I barked a laugh and leaned back, retreating from her space. “Uh huh. So what is your type?”
She crossed her arms and legs, giving me an appraising look. “I like guys who are creative, confident, and know what they want.”
I’m confident and know what I want. Out loud, I teased, “And Asian guys aren’t like that?”
Wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed and her arms tightened over her chest. “I don’t have to defend my personal preferences to you.”
I held my hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, no need to. I was just curious.” When she rolled her eyes, I added, “Not that I’m hitting on you.”
“Sure. Right.” She rolled her eyes again.
“Suit yourself.” With a small shrug, I sat back and resumed reading my book.
Silence ensued, for a few blissful moments. I successfully read four sentences before she continued, “Look, you seem like a nice guy, and you’re friends with Cassie, so you can’t be that bad. But you’re definitely, 100% not my type.”
I frowned at her and lowered the book to my lap. I’d already gotten the picture—she didn’t have to keep repeating herself. But if she wasn’t done, then neither was I. “Because I’m Asian? Because you’re Asian?”
She pursed her lips and looked away. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
I rolled my eyes and sat back again, annoyed. She was the one who had continued talking to me, trying to put me down.
I’d certainly met her type before—women who refused to date Asian guys for any number of ridiculous reasons. I’d been perfectly nice to her, a total gentleman so far...at least until we started talking about why she insisted on being racist. What really confused me was the intensity in her eyes, the way she refused to back away from me, and the subtle flare of her nostrils each time I came near, a slight inhalation. She was clearly as affected by me as I was by her. There was something between us. Yet she still held onto whatever small-minded, misguided beliefs prevented her from just viewing me as an individual. She still referred to me as “not her type,” as if she could exclude an entire portion of the population just based on, what, how slanted their eyes were? That pissed me off.
“I’m not a fob, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with being fresh off the boat.”
She pursed her lips and doggedly stared into the aisle.
“What, it’s not fobbiness that turns you off? Is it—”
She tipped her head back and groaned. “Ugh, I’m an American, okay? I want to live for myself, not the…” Her hands waved in my general direction. “...Asian American dream.”
I snorted. “Wow, really? You’re calling me the Asian American dream?”
“Well aren’t you?” She listed my qualifications on her fingers. “You work at Stumpstash, a fintech company, so you’re probably making a fortune. You probably did well in school. You’re dressed like a typical tech bro. Everything about you spells safe, bland, mama’s boy.” Contempt bled from her eyes.
I tittered. “Y’know, a lot of what you just described could be said of half the guys on this plane. Not just me, not just Asian guys. Besides, what’s wrong with being smart and making money? Or heaven forbid, loving your mom?”
She sighed and threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. “I’m just not into guys like you. Period.”
The dead horse was already tenderized...yet still, she persisted. “Hey, I—”
“Excuse me.” Our window seat neighbor cleared her throat and made eye contact with me, then with Anna. “Is he bothering you?” She switched her gaze back to me and did her best Bad Cop impression.
Anna shot her a grateful look. “Yes. But it’s okay, we’re done talking.” Bad Cop nodded slowly and leaned back against the window, closing her eyes. The tense line of her shoulders suggested that she was ready to pounce again if I persisted, though.
Anna leaned in and whispered, “Just drop it. You wouldn’t understand.”
I studied her face: the sapphire nose piercing, the teal-colored hair, the thick eyeliner. The proud, disdainful expression, as if she knew everything about everything, myself included. The whole of her look screamed cool, rebellious, sexy, independent...but perhaps a bit too loudly. It hid the fact that she was also defensive, judgmental, and pretty damnfickle.
So I leaned in closer, triumphantly noting my effect on her—her shallow intake of breath, her wary eyes glinting with something more. She didn’t lean away, just let me trace my fingers along her ear and brush her hair aside, then whisper against her cheek, “Good thing you’re not my type.”
It took her a moment to register what I’d said. Then she stiffened—she hadn’t been expecting that. With one last smirk, I turned back to my book. She shook her head and looked away without responding, but I gleefully noted that she squirmed a little in her seat.
Chapter 3
-Anna-
What an ass. Screw him and his stupid good-looking face. And his deep, sexy voice.
Good thing you’re not my type.
Oh yeah? Then what was with all that leaning-in-and-breathing-on-me bullshit? I bit my lip and squirmed in my seat, bitterly noting that his comment had elicited an unwanted physiological response in the form of moisture between my legs. While his words had spelled rejection, his tone had suggested an invitation. The caress of his whisper, his tantalizing scent...urgh, whatever. I clearly just needed to get laid soon, and not by him.
I briefly glanced his way, noting the straight line of his nose, the
