Fight or Flight(6)
“How am I judging you based on what you look like?”
“ ‘Someone like you,’ you said, right?” I cocked my head to the side as I studied his rugged—and right now harsh—countenance.
He gave me a taut nod.
“You don’t know me. You met me a few hours ago in an airport, where admittedly people don’t always act like their normal selves because of high levels of stress, fatigue, and often fear of flying. So if you don’t know who I am as a person, the only logical conclusion I can draw is that you’re judging me based on what I look like and not on who I am.”
The Bastard Scot contemplated me a moment. “True,” he finally said. “To a certain extent. But you can often tell a lot about a person from the way he or she looks. It’s just whether or not you’re intuitive enough tae get it right. You saw tattoos and thought—what … motorcycle club?”
I tried not to blush, squirming uncomfortably that he’d guessed correctly.
“And you were wrong about me. But you are right, I dinnae know you, but I can tell by the time you spent on your hair and makeup, on the money you spent on your suit, on those designer shoes, the diamonds in your ears and around your wrist, that for whatever reason—and I dinnae know what those reasons are—you care what people think about your appearance. By the weight of the carry-on I just stuffed in the overheard bin I’d also say you overpack, which along with how you look, suggests you’re high maintenance. And I would be very, very surprised if I’d gotten that wrong about you.”
His tone more than the words caused a heat in my cheeks brought on by hurt feelings. “So you think you’re better than me because you don’t care about your appearance?”
“I didn’t say I dinnae care about my appearance. I care. I’m covered in tattoos that say I care. I just dinnae care what anyone else thinks about my appearance.”
“Well, maybe that’s how I feel. I like to look well presented. It’s got nothing to do with anyone else.”
His answering expression suggested he didn’t believe me and it bothered me that I cared. So I scoffed, “I don’t care what you think of me.”
“Of course you do. I’m probably the first straight man you’ve ever met who hasn’t fallen at your feet.” His eyes scanned my face first before moving down the length of my body in a way that made me involuntarily shiver.
That only made his words more provoking. They prodded an old hurt that had already been reawakened this week. I was determined to bury it where it belonged and did not need this stranger messing with my efforts. “You accuse me of being judgmental, but you are way more judgmental than me.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t say I wasn’t. I’m just usually right. And I’m right about you.”
The urge to prove him wrong was so strong and yet all that proved was that he was right. I cared too much what people thought. Despite his dismissal of me, of how much it opened old wounds, I decided the best thing I could do was just ignore him as previously planned.
I drank the rest of the champagne and put the empty glass in the cup holder beside me. The Bastard Scot turned back to his laptop like he hadn’t just insulted me. Again.
Truthfully, I’d never met a more impolite, ill-mannered, impertinent man in my life.
Trying to ignore his existence, I opened up my current book on my e-reader, my body humming with awareness of the large guy beside me and growing steadily more pissed off about it. I hated that I kept getting faint whiffs of cologne—a decidedly delicious musky, woodsy, spicy scent that suited the bastard way too much. After I’d read the same paragraph for the fifth time, relief flooded me when my phone started to buzz in my suit pocket.
“That’s supposed tae be switched off,” he grumbled beside me.
I sniffed in derision as I pulled the cell out of my pocket. “The man who is trying so hard to prove he doesn’t care what other people think of him is a stickler for the rules? Shocking.”
Watching his lips pinch in annoyance gave me more pleasure than it should. Pleasure that transformed from smug to tender at the sight of the name on my phone screen. “Hey, sweetie,” I answered.
“I’m sorry I missed your call. Lunch hour, you know.” Harper’s voice made me instantly relax. My best friend’s voice on the other end of the line had kept me sane these past few days.
“I just called to tell you my flight got canceled. I’m on a flight to Chicago, but I’ll have to stay overnight at O’Hare. My flight home isn’t until tomorrow morning.”
“What happened?”
“Some volcano in Iceland.”
“I thought that was just affecting European flights?”
“Apparently not.”
“Huh. That sucks. You okay?”
Aware of the man sitting next to me, I turned slightly toward the window and lowered my voice. “I just want to get home.”
“I should have come with you.” Harper’s voice was filled with regret.
“No, sweetie. I had to do this alone. We both know that.”
“We both don’t know that. You are always there for me. You should have let me be there for you with this.”
Maybe I should have. But the truth was, I didn’t want the way I was treated back in Phoenix to affect Harper’s perception of me. She knew my side of the story, of course, but I was afraid that all those people would somehow convince her everything was my fault. And it wasn’t my fault. It was a ridiculous fear, because Harper loved me, but still it had snuck under my skin. “You didn’t have to be there for me to be there for me.”