I’m fixated on the narrow gap between them and nod my thanks to the flight attendant. At least I have leg room. One direction is better than nothing, right?
The man in the aisle seat unbuckles his seatbelt and rises, unfolding himself almost to his full height. He has to stoop a bit or else hit his head on the ceiling. I avoid eye contact, not in the mood to engage anyone as raw as I am, and I lift my carry-on, surveying the overhead compartment for space.
A big hand covers mine. “Let me help you with that, Dr. Nicolo.”
That deep voice sends a cascade of tingles down my spine and my gaze jerks up. I meet a familiar set of steel-gray eyes set in the bearded face of Mason Black, the mysterious disappearing man who visited Marcella Santos this morning. The dark purple bruise around one eye is just as I remember it, though a little less swollen. He smiles and my entire body warms.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling back and relinquishing my small suitcase. I move to slide into my seat, a rush still coursing through me from the shock of coming face-to-face with him again.
He wrestles with the other bags in the compartment to fit mine in, and I can’t help but steal a glance at his tattooed biceps as the muscles bunch and flex with the weight of my bag. His T-shirt rides up a little, revealing a cut belly adorned with more ink. His stretch puts his crotch at eye-level, his impressive package clad in well-worn, blue-gray camouflage fatigues.
Yazmin’s wisdom repeats itself in my head. If I want to get over Barnaby, this is the kind of guy I want to do it with.
A throat clears from my other side and I avert my gaze, glancing at the man in the window seat as my cheeks turn molten. He chuckles softly and shakes his head before returning his attention to his e-reader.
Sitting back, I fasten my seatbelt and try to settle in, but when Mason reclaims his seat, his shoulder brushes mine and sends a fresh jolt of electricity straight to my core.
He leans his head close and inundates me with his woody scent. The back of my neck prickles with acute awareness of his proximity. Jesus, he’s going to talk to me. I’m afraid I’ll spontaneously combust if he so much as breathes a word. What the hell is wrong with me?
But what he says cools me down significantly.
“Not that I’m not happy to see you, Doc, but who’s taking care of Mrs. Santos if you’re here?”
Right. To him, I’m not a woman; I’m a doctor. The doctor who was treating his sick relative. I make a point to look him in the eyes this time and my heart melts a little at the genuine worry I see. Compassion takes over and I rest a hand on his arm, squeezing gently.
“She’s stable and in capable hands. I’m only one of several doctors on her team. I’m also only a resident. My attending, Dr. Yao, is the head of neurosurgery. He’s still there, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”
His pinched expression eases and he nods, sitting back in his seat. “Thanks.”
“Your aunt is very special to you, isn’t she? Do you mind if I ask why you aren’t staying?”
His bearded face is hard to read, but I’m sure I catch a flash of frustration in his eyes. He just shakes his head. “Work,” he says, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. Then he looks at me again and his gaze slips down my body. “What about you? I didn’t know they let residents off the leash.”
I laugh, which earns a smile from him too. He has a nice smile that’s only enhanced by the dark bristles of his beard. An errant part of my brain imagines what he might be like to kiss, to feel that fringe against my lips.
“They do technically allow us time off, but we don’t always get it when we want it. I made a point to work through the holidays just so I could have New Year’s. It’s a sacrifice, but worth it.”
I leave out the part about not having much of a life to speak of, which earns me the good will from my superiors to actually request more than a few days at a time. I’m taking an entire week of consecutive days, which few residents manage to get.
The flight attendants begin their pre-flight spiel, so we turn our attention to them. When they’re finished, the captain announces a delay due to a storm on the flight path. I sigh and pull out a tattered book I’ve been slowly working my way through, then stop and stare at the cover, realizing the book was a gift from Barnaby several Christmases ago. I completely lose interest and shove it into the seat pocket in front of me, then sit back, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth against a wave of fresh internal arguments I wish I’d had with Barnaby for real.
There were so many things I buried just to avoid conflict. So many things he did that I let slide because they were only small slights that he managed to make up for with platitudes and presents. I’d fully expected him to blow off Mom’s party this year. I can hear his excuses clear as day in my head now. He made plans to go skiing with friends in Aspen. It’s an excuse I’ve heard before, and a sick feeling rises in my gut when it occurs to me that whoever he thought he was texting might have been present for past trips too.
“It’s not a very good book anyway,” Mason says.
“It was a gift,” I say in
