Friday, May 17, 2013

'Of course you're capable, knucklehead...'

New excerpt for ONE SMALL FIB...

(This is Allie Blue's first encounter with billionaire, Kiptyn Thomas) 
     The dark-haired, thirty-something billionaire appeared oblivious to anything except moving through the narrow aisleway with his carry-on.
     "Please. Let me help you." Allie reached for his bag.
     His head snapped up and gray-blue eyes hooked onto hers. "I'm quite capable."
     Of course you're capable, knucklehead, but I have orders to pamper you. Allie dug her teeth into her bottom lip.
     Kiptyn Thomas settled into his seat without buckling his seatbelt, and Allie wondered if fastening it for him was part of the pamper-package. She shook the thought away. No way. She was not reaching across a broad-shouldered man to secure his seatbelt.
     "Would you like something to drink, Mr. Thomas?"
     He hawked her name tag, and in a voice deep with gravel and authority, he said, "You're new."
     Allie instinctively slinked back a half-step.
     A momentary ember of interest fired in his eyes, and Allie continued to smile while gritting her teeth.
     "Having to tell a different person every week what I want or what I need is getting old." His dark, bushy brows dipped together so tight they formed the letter V. "I like things to stay the same. I fly to San Francisco on Monday and return to New York on Wednesday. I want the same plane, the same seat, and the same flight attendant. Is that too much to ask?"
     A little obsessive-compulsive there, bucko. Allie had listened to the other attendants complain about this gem. Funny how they failed to mention he was also neurotic. "I totally understand," she chirped like his imposing attitude didn't bother her in the slightest. "What would you like to drink?"
     "Scotch. And stop saying totally. I hate that word."
     "Yes, sir." Ack. The reality that she had to mollycoddle this privileged philanderer for six long hours made her want to strap on a parachute and jump out over Newark. Or really get in his craw by saying totally every chance she got.
     Before she hurried to do his bidding, she shot him a congenial smile that said, "Relax, enjoy, I'll be right back." But she made sure her eyes said something different: "Get a life" and she looked directly at him so he could hear what they were saying.
     On her way to the service area, she questioned the sanity of that look. Why couldn't she ward off the urge to bite back? She pulled in a breath because she knew the answer -- because she was missing the putting-up-with-crap gene, that's why.
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