The Sweetest Gift - Scarlett Cole Page 0,47

sight. Perhaps, Emerson thought, she was the only one immune to Mr. Grumpy’s style of charm. “How can I help?”

Mr. Grumpy explained. Emerson offered her ticket as proof.

“I see the problem,” said the flight attendant, taking a look at both their tickets before placing her hand on Mr. Grumpy’s arm. “You’ve both been given the same seat. It’ll just be a moment while I figure this out. Please, take a seat.”

Mr. Grumpy looked at her expectantly. Emerson scoffed. He wanted her to move. And while she half expected she’d have to move back to the economy cabin any moment, she wasn’t going to make this easy for some smooth-talking idiot. Even if he did have the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

“It would make more sense for you to move over,” Mr. Grumpy said.

Emerson tucked her legs up against the seat. “There’s plenty of room for you to get by.”

“I can’t work if I sit by the window, too much light on my laptop screen,” he said, pointedly.

“What, so a woman on a plane can’t possibly be wanting to work because…?” She let the words hang.

Mr. Grumpy’s jaw twitched and, for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of dimple. “That wasn’t what I was implying.”

“Oh, so you just want it to be more convenient for you to work than me?” Damn. She hadn’t intended to work, but if she ended up staying in the aisle seat and not back in 34E, she would need to work just to make her point.

Now it was Mr. Grumpy’s turn to scoff. His glacial eyes looked toward her glass of wine for a moment, then back at Emerson. “I can only imagine how focused you’ll be.”

Standing, she quickly realized that there was still a good six inches in height between them. “Are you honestly trying to shame me and my ability to work because of one miniscule glass of wine, taken because I happen to be terrified of flying? Which, by the way, is the reason I don’t want to sit next to the goddamn window. First you get mad because of an administrative error that I did not cause. Then you invade my personal space to call for assistance… assistance you could have gained had you walked ten feet to the cabin crew. Judgmental and rude is really not a good look for you.”

Mr. Grumpy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hmm. That’s a lot to tackle in one go. You want me to take them one by one, or—”

“Problem solved,” said the flight attendant brightly. “There’s another aisle seat that’s empty over there.” She pointed to the other side of the cabin a few rows back. “Or one of you can take the window. Which would you prefer, Mr. Finch?”

Feeling somewhat embarrassed yet unapologetic over her outburst, Emerson reached for her purse. “Look, I can go back—”

“I’ll go,” Mr. Finch said, although he’d always be Mr. Grumpy to her.

“Thank you,” the flight attendant said, casting a look in Emerson’s direction, as if she’d been the problem all along. “We’re grateful for your cooperation.”

Silently seething and mortified, Emerson sat back down.

“Thanks for taking your seat, Ms. Dyer. Mr. Finch, if you’d like to go and take your seat, we’ll be departing shortly.”

Mr. Grumpy’s demeanor shifted. His spine straightened and his pale eyes glared at Emerson. He spun on his heel and marched in the direction without another word.

It was the oddest part of their whole encounter.

Emerson raised the wine to her lips, it tasted sour on her tongue, the enjoyment taken away by a man she didn’t know and shouldn’t possibly care about.

In an attempt to reclaim the positive mood she’d been embracing just before Mr. Grumpy’s arrival, she forced herself to sip the wine anyway.

But she couldn’t resist one last look in his direction, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found him staring right back at her.

Catch. Power. Recovery.

Catch. Power. Recovery.

Connor Finch focused on the repetition. He kicked his legs, propelling himself forward, turning his head every second stroke to gulp for air. When the end of the pool came into view, he tucked his head and turned, kicking off the edge of the pool to gain momentum.

Catch. Power. Recovery.

His arms burned, muscles already tired from an hour spent in the gym. His mind was empty of any other thought than lap count and form.

The hotel pool was less than ideal, but thankfully it wasn’t busy enough to stop him from achieving his goal. Five kilometers. Six days a