Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
This is it.
He gives me a curious look, though he doesn’t stop with the pillow.
“Harry! Hi!” I say, picking up the phone.
There’s a pause on the other end, and I can practically feel Harry’s surprise at my enthusiasm. “Hey, Katherine! You sound like you’re in a good mood. The holiday bug finally got you, huh?”
“Ma’am.” A flight attendant is standing beside Tom’s seat in the aisle, giving me a censuring look. “Please hang that up.”
I hold up a finger. In a minute.
“What’s up, Harry?”
“Ma’am.” The flight attendant’s tone shifts from peeved to pissed. “I’m going to have to ask you to put your phone away.”
“Harry, one sec.” I mute the call and turn to the flight attendant on her power trip. “Listen, I know you’re just doing your job. I’ve been waiting my entire life for this phone call. And you can’t seriously tell me that my iPhone is going to crash this plane.”
“Oh my God,” Tom mutters.
The flight attendant glares at me, completely unmoved by my extremely rational argument.
I give her the same smile I give juries during closing arguments. “Maybe you could just ask the pilot to wait? I just need five minutes.”
“Katherine.” Tom’s tone is sharp. “Seriously.”
“Yes, Tom, seriously.” I unmute my call. “Sorry about that, Harry. What’s up?”
I never get the chance to find out because Tom pulls the phone out of my hand, hangs up, and tries to do damage control, but it’s too late.
The flight attendant either had an axe to grind or a score to settle.
Because five minutes later, the plane takes off.
And I’m not on it.
SEVENTEEN
TOM
December 23, 4:19 p.m.
I’ve always thought of myself as a relatively patient man, especially as it pertains to travel and all the inevitable setbacks that go along with it.
It’s a trait I learned early on in life as the oldest of four kids. No matter how strict the itinerary, or how precise my mother’s packing list, family road trips and summer vacations always came with flat tires, forgotten inhalers, beestings, and lots of arguing.
Even when my part in the chaos was small, it fell to me to fix it, keep a level head, and “set a good example.” I never minded the added responsibility, and the older I got, the more I actively appreciated my ability to avoid and handle a crisis.
And then Katherine Tate came into my life, a woman who operates almost entirely in crisis mode and who thus challenged everything I thought I knew about myself. Namely, that my patience has limits and that she, and only she, can turn my calm, predictable life into a goddamn war zone.
“You had to use the ‘I’m an attorney’ line,” I grumble at her.
“I am an attorney,” she says in a genuinely affronted voice. As though she is the injured party in this situation. Which, I suppose, technically she is.
But right now, I’m inclined to think my current situation is much, much worse than any concussion or stitches.
And for that matter, I’m beginning to wonder if her concussion is contagious because I’m getting a headache.
I say I wonder because I’m not actually all that familiar with headaches. At least not anymore. In fact, I think my last headache dates all the way back to my first marriage. Marriage to this woman, who is basically a walking, talking, pontificating migraine in heels.
“Damn,” she mutters. “Now Harry’s not picking up.”
She huffs and scowls at me, as though this is my fault, though I know her well enough to see the guilt in her eyes.
“You don’t think the flight attendant overreacted a little?” Katherine asks. “Kicking us off the plane?”
“Kicking you off the plane,” I amend quickly. “I chose to follow.”
And if I’m being honest, Katherine’s not wrong about the flight attendant’s overreaction. Having Katherine escorted off the plane for using her cell phone did feel a little over the top, but then, Katherine has a way of triggering the extreme in people.
“Why did you?” she asks, frowning at me.
“Why did I what?”
“Get off the plane with me?”
I glare at her. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”
“Oh, God, we’re doing this thing again, huh? The noble St. Tom sacrificing everything he holds dear to do the right thing by the hot mess? I’m fine, Tom. I’ve always been fine, I don’t need you swooping in to save me.”
“Give me a break, Katie,” I snap, my temper near the breaking point. “Just a couple hours ago you were in the hospital, and if it weren’t for me, you’d either still be there or be passed out on your bed at home, possibly never to wake up again.”
“Don’t sound so hopeful.” She looks away, then back at me again. “Thank you,” she says with clear reluctance. “For getting off the plane.”
I lift an eyebrow. “That’s a start. Now how about an apology? For making us miss the flight?”