ADDICTED

10

LEAH

The wind whipped around me, destroying the tight nape-bun I had wrapped my hair in this morning. I leaned into the invisible force and soaked up its coolness.

"Do you think we're moving to New York permanently?"

My eyes flashed open. James was marching towards me with his rolling carry-on. I glanced at my full-size luggage and shrugged.

"Never know what I'll need," I told him. "You're late, Mr. Muller."

In truth, I knew he wasn't. I had worked with this man for a week now and was now familiar with his particular ways.

He was always at least five minutes early. If he was late for anything, it was because he wanted to be. I also knew he liked his coffee with exactly one sugar, that he hated wearing anything but blue or gray, and he ate like a bird.

A year ago, I would've refused to eat in front of someone like James. He didn't necessarily judge me, but I didn't want him to know that I liked food and I liked a lot of it.

Now, I didn't care so much. I might have liked pigging out in front of him now just to annoy him.

James checked his fancy Garmin watch. "I'm two minutes early. Come on. Let's check-in."

We headed into the building. I had already checked us both in through the airline app, so I just dropped my suitcase off at the baggage drop.

James led the way toward security. The line, as usual, was a mile long. He seemed content to ignore me and answer any of my small talk with single-word responses.

I got the memo. He was ruining my pre-trip enthusiasm, though. I didn't travel often, but I always loved the airport atmosphere and the giddiness of seeing new places and things.

In spite of his sulking attitude, I spent the next forty minutes scrolling through Instagram and editing photos I had taken this week.

"Are you a food blogger?" asked James.

I lifted my head. His gaze bounced between my face and the image of gnocchi I was editing.

"For myself, maybe," I said. "I don't post them. I just like to log the foods I make. It's a hobby, I guess."

He nodded his head slowly, thoughtfully. "Where did you learn?"

"How to cook? I taught myself mostly." I chuckled once. "Does it look like I went to culinary school?"

"Those pictures seem to indicate some level of expertise."

I tucked my phone into my pocket and rocked on my heels. "Thank you. I do appreciate that. No one else really sees what I make."

"You should—" He stopped himself.

"I should . . . ?"

"Never mind. It's our turn, let's go."

He hurried off towards the ready TSA officer. I sighed. This guy.

After two hours and a venti iced coffee, we finally were boarding the plane. I stopped at our row in economy and looked back at James. He had the aisle seat, I had the middle, and an older heavy gentleman was currently seated at the window.

Mentally cursing him, I scooted to the middle seat and smiled over at the stranger. We would be nice and close for the next several hours.

He smiled back. There was spinach between his teeth and he reeked of sweat and body odor.

Good God.

I looked back at James but he was already setting up his laptop and plugging in his wireless earbuds.