path to the lake. Engulfing it, at times. A slew of memories came with that scent—fresh cut grass and the clack-clack-clack of the rusty hand mower his grandfather insisted on using, the wind in the trees, the sun on his face and voices, laughter. Innocent times, endless summer days with a purer form of exhaustion. The kind that meant you’d had a full, satisfying day and could look forward to another, then another.
Something fell, and the woman leaned down. Her hair brushed his knee—long, silky strands. Erik breathed that in, too.
The man in the seat in front of him shifted heavily, and Erik’s eyes flicked open, then shut.
Open.
Shut.
Open.
His eyes stayed on the seat ahead but it was the periphery of his vision that commanded his attention. Her khaki slacks extended a long way into the leg space. Hands, tan, wiry, unadorned by jewelry, sorted through a stack of reading material. A blue diary and a cheap thriller, plus some kind of sports magazine. She’d planned ahead for the long flight, obviously. The hands placed a second book on top, a thick one. His eyes slid over the cover. Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Cien Años de Soledad. One Hundred Years of Solitude—in Spanish? But the other book and the magazine were in English.
Interesting.
The next thing she produced was a plastic water bottle with an abstract Eifel Tower: Paris Marathon. Now that would explain the legs and the slightly raised veins, a faint road map hinting at a very busy circulatory system. Her hair was a sun-tinged light brown, the fair complexion Northern European. A Brit?
The hands reached for the in-flight magazine and leafed to the world map. She was studying their route. Erik recalled the excitement of his early flights, of watching countries and mountain ranges slide beneath him. That heady feeling of being an astronaut, like he used to dream of as a kid. Before all the travel had melted together into an endless succession of foreign airports and cookie-cutter hotels.
And now, yet another long flight, surrounded by strangers. He closed his eyes and thought back to summer once again.
* * *
He checked his watch to find that four hours had gone by. Good. He’d made a good dent in his work. He reached for his glass, only to find it empty.
A whole vodka, gone so fast? No, the vodka was earlier, before the gin. But now that was gone, too. Where was the stewardess?
The man in the aisle seat had gone to the restroom, and the woman sitting next to Erik stood, too, using the chance to stretch out a little. He watched her stride up the narrow aisle, turn back, then pace away.
Trim, leggy, lithe. A runner, remember? Late twenties, maybe. She was pretty in a natural, undecorated kind of way, like the girls back home. Not like the corporate types, dressed to kill—and with attitudes to match. No, this woman was different. Her purplish-blue blouse brought out the intense color of her eyes. Loose and airy, it gave her lots of room to move. So she chose comfortable and practical over showing off what had to be a great body. Why that? Maybe she didn’t like feeling hemmed in.
Or maybe she was simply here to get from A to B, not to make an impression on anyone. Just like him.
Fine. Now that he’d figured her out, he could focus on work.
He adjusted the angle of his laptop but found his eyes wandering back. Unlike most of the passengers on the flight, she didn’t seem tuned out. Her eyes were wandering, taking everything in. All the while moving, stretching. Boy, did she have energy. A lot of pent-up energy with nowhere to put it.
Or did she? He thought of the Eifel Tower water bottle, the stack of books, her worn backpack. No, this was a woman who found ways to blow off that energy. He disciplined himself not to go too far imagining all the ways she might do this, given a different setting.
He was very good at disciplining himself. Denying himself. Like a soldier. He was a rock, fully armored for maximum protection. He knew just what he wanted; to be left alone, to get this project wrapped up. So what the hell was he doing, day-dreaming?
His eyes couldn’t resist another peek. Her diary lay face down on the table, an address scribbled across the back. Jill Bowden, Blackheath, London. But her accent was American, he was sure of that after hearing her exchanges with the stewardess.
What to