Chapter 3

Gage

It seemed the woman at my side recognized me. With wide green eyes, she reached forward again and tugged out her purse. I was prepared for her to hand me something to sign. What she did instead was toss a lightweight sweater onto my lap.

What the fuck? I’d had panties thrown at me, but never sweaters.

This was a new one. At my expression of confusion, she explained, “You have a huge hole in the crotch of your jeans.”

I blinked twice, not at all sure how to respond. Instead of being my usually suave self, I asked, “You were looking at my junk?” I could have smacked myself as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Not intentionally,” she insisted.

“How does one accidentally check out a guy’s junk?” Things were getting worse. I seemed incapable of saying anything that didn’t make me sound like an asshole.

“If you’re going to be rude, I’ll take my sweater back,” she warned, her hand reaching out to snatch it off my lap.

I chuckled and caught her hand. “Don’t take the sweater away. I promise I’ll behave.”

She pulled her hand back and smiled at me. That smile hit me like a gut punch. She was definitely not my type. I had a thing for model-thin blondes. The woman sitting beside me had an impressive figure, soft curves that could easily make a man hard. I’d never gone for the girl-next-door type. As if the heart-shaped face framed by curly brown hair that rested just below her shoulders wasn’t enough, she also had freckles. Her green eyes were alight with humor.

“You’d better reach under there and put your seatbelt on,” she advised.

I’d been staring at my girl-next-door instead of paying attention to what was going on around me. Looking away, I fastened my seatbelt before pretending to pay attention to the safety instructions from the flight attendant.

After our flight was in the air, I decided I should thank my neighbor for her help. I also wanted to talk to her more. A big part of me wanted to figure out if she was pretending she didn’t recognize me. She seemed sweet and genuine, but that could also be an act.

“Thanks for the loan of the sweater,” I began. “I can’t believe I was in such a hurry, I missed a huge hole in my jeans. You’d think someone would have mentioned it.”

“The hole probably didn’t stand out until you sat down. I’m glad I could help,” she replied. “I have a tendency to hold onto my old jeans until they’re falling apart, too. Luckily, I’ve never had that particular problem.”

“I was going to grab a newer pair, but I hate being uncomfortable on a flight,” I admitted. “It bugs me that my jeans fall apart when they start to get really comfortable.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I have some that look so bad, I only wear them around the house, but I can’t give them up. It seems as soon as they’re finally broken in, they need to be tossed.”

“Ah, so you are at least smart enough to stick to wearing your worn jeans at home,” I told her.

“I’d prefer to avoid having the world see my panties,” she added. “Your situation could be worse.”

“Yeah,” I agreed with a laugh. “I might have a seatmate who doesn’t care enough to tell me about the hole in my jeans.”

“You could have also gone commando,” she stated.

I chuckled at her suggestion. That scenario could have ended with pictures of my junk all over the internet. “I’d like to think I would have noticed if the air was hitting things down there.”

“One would hope, but I don’t know you well enough to judge how observant you are,” was her response.

“Good point,” I agreed with a grin. “Since you’re stuck with me for the next hour, I may as well introduce myself. I’m Gage.”

“I’m Bentley,” she replied.

“Bentley?” I asked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone named Bentley. Do you go by your last name?”

“No, my father has a thing for cars,” she explained.

“That makes sense. It had to be either that or motorcycles with a first name like Bentley,” I remarked.

“Motorcycles would have been great,” she mused. “Then I might have been named Harley. That is a much cooler name than Bentley.”

“I can’t picture you as a Harley,” I told her.

“Can you honestly picture me as a Bentley?” she asked.

“It is your name, so I don’t have any trouble seeing you as Bentley,” I replied.

“And if I’d introduced myself as Harley, you’d have no trouble picturing me as a Harley,” she argued.

I shook my head before responding. “Sorry, but you definitely don’t look like a Harley.”

“I would have been more badass,” she told me. “How could I have been anything less with such an awesome name?”

“Do you have a nickname?” I asked.

“I usually go by my middle name because it’s easier for people,” she replied. “People mess up my name all the time. I get called Whitney or Betsy.”

“Those names don’t even sound like Bentley,” I said with a shake of my head.

“People don’t do well with unusual names,” she explained.

“It is a unique name,” I agreed before adding, “I mean that in a good way. Gage was uncommon when I was a kid. All the boys were named Michael, Matthew, or Christopher.”

“There were several Jacobs in my classes, too,” she added. “It seemed every girl in my class was named Jessica or Ashley. Back then, I wanted to have a more common name. Now, I realize how lucky I was that I could just go by my first name in school.”

“Our teachers used to add a letter to everyone’s name. I remember having a Michael S, a Michael A, and a Michael M in one class.”

“It was so confusing,” she agreed. “At least, outside of class we could use nicknames. In my group of friends I had Jessica, Jessie, Jessa, and Jess.”

“Guys do things a little different,” I explained.

“I have a brother, so I know,” she assured me. “You can’t simply call someone Chris. You have to add some description to the name. My brother was friends with Crack-head Chris, Corvette Chris, and Chris Cross.”

“I’d like to say I’ve outgrown that, but it would be a lie,” I admitted. “My friends didn’t need a name for me. That didn’t stop them from calling me Twelve Gage for a year.”

“That would have been hard for a bunch of preteen boys to resist,” she said around a giggle.

“How about you?” I asked.

“I can resist calling you Twelve Gage,” she said with a straight face.

“Smart ass,” I accused. “Do you have a nickname? I mean other than your middle name.”

“A few people call me Bennie, mostly family,” she replied.

“I like Bentley better,” I told her.

Our discussion of unusual names was interrupted when a flight attendant came by to take drink orders. After he left, I looked over at Bentley again. “So, what do you do for a living?”

“My job title is executive assistant, but I’m not sure that accurately describes what I do,” she began. “I basically put out every fire and make every arrangement for my employer.”

“That sounds stressful,” I remarked.

“It is, but I seem to thrive on the stress,” she replied. “How about you, Gage? What do you do for a living?”

I wasn’t ready to answer that question. I liked that she thought I was just some guy with a hole in his pants. I wanted to continue with our easy banter.

“What do you think I do for a living?” I asked.