"Afraid of flying?”
“Nope. Just don’t like small planes.” When I did have to fly, I preferred jets, big ones. The propeller outside my window looked fragile, spinning like a tiny windmill in a West Texas sandstorm. He scanned the gauges. “Safer than driving. In a pinch you can land this Seneca V easier than a 747. Look, two engines.” In case I’d missed them, he pointed at each. “We’ll be there in less than an hour.” He reached over and patted my arm.
Since this was my year for making resolutions, a few months ago, I’d declared myself a born-again virgin until the right man came along. I’d read somewhere you could do that. Despite my inner warnings, an involuntary wave of desire surged through my newly virgined parts.
I shrugged off his hand, trying to hide my reaction. “Shouldn’t you keep your hands on the wheel or stick or whatever you call it?” I tucked a lock of hair behind one ear in an effort to appear casual, but my hand trembled.
He chuckled. “You know, you aren’t at all what I expected.”
Bristling at his arrogance, I glared at him. His eyes held mine for a moment, then wandered lower. My back stiffened. I was glad I’d worn my best jeans and had my top tucked in. My stomach was still flat and my waist small, but when it came to breasts, he might have to use his imagination.
“And what did you expect? For me to be covered in dog hair, with slobber running down the front of my shirt?”
He laughed, revealing straight white teeth. I looked for fillings. He couldn’t be perfect.