“No, I’m fine.”
“I’ve told Cyril we were coming. He invited himself over to my house tomorrow. He has some ideas about the film he wants to run by you.”
“That’d be great.” She laughed when Jacob made a face. “You act like Cyril is a pain, but you actually like his company, don’t you?”
He merely shrugged, but something about his small smile told her that what she’d said was true.
“Maybe it’ll be for the best if he comes over. I’ll be in meetings tomorrow afternoon. Cyril can keep you company. I promise you a nice dinner tomorrow night, though, and we have tickets to the opera tonight.”
“It sounds great.”
“Good. You don’t want to sit next to the window?” he asked, nodding toward the seat across from him.
“No, I’d rather sit next to you.”
The plane began to move on the runway. He seemed tense. Distracted.
“What?” she asked him, sensing he had something on his tongue.
“Is flying . . . or heights, one of the fears you had when you were a kid?”
“No,” she replied without hesitation.
“Do you mind if I ask what you were afraid of when you were young? Besides . . . you know. Knives?”
“Why? I don’t have those phobias anymore,” she said, honestly curious about why he would want to know.
He shrugged, bringing her attention down to his broad shoulders. He was wearing a white shirt and a tweed blazer. She had to restrain herself from putting her hands all over him, he looked so appealing. “I was just interested. It’s amazing, the way your father was able to get rid of your phobias so completely.”
“Dogs,” she admitted after a pause, sighing. “That’s why I got a little freaked out when Charger charged me on the beach.”
His eyebrows went up. “So the fears weren’t completely eradicated.”
“You saw me with all your dogs. Lots of people would jump if a large animal ran at them, but I keep it under control. I can manage my anxiety.”
“Right,” he murmured. The plane turned onto the runway. He was looking at her intently, stroking her hand with his thumb, seemingly unaware when the plane began to speed up for takeoff. “Was there anything else?”
“Crowds. Being out in public.”
“You were agoraphobic?”
“Yes. School phobic, too, because of it,” she said, looking away from his incising stare . . . feeling a little stupid. Embarrassed. She cleared her throat, reminding herself she was a grown woman now and was no longer that frightened girl. “I was never really afraid of people, per se, it was being out that got to me. I felt vulnerable. Exposed. I missed a good part of the seventh grade, because of it. Between doing the schoolwork at home, tutoring, and summer school, I was able to enter the eighth grade with my original class. Although, even in the eighth grade, my attendance was still a little problematic. By my sophomore year or so, the worst of my anxieties were past. I joined the school newspaper and the creative writing club.” She shrugged. “Writing kind of brought me out of my shell.”
“That’s a lot of time lost. Do you regret it?”
“Sure. A whole chunk of my childhood was taken from me.” The plane lifted from the ground and began hurtling through empty space. The engines hummed loudly in her ears.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Isn’t there usually a precipitating event to phobias like you had? Some kind of trauma?” he probed.
She focused on him, slightly incredulous that he expected her to spill her vulnerabilities. “Sometimes, but not necessarily. Why are you so curious about my teenage neuroses? Are you worried they’re going to make a reappearance?”
“No. I’m just interested. I want to know you better.”
She gave him a seriously? glance. His expression flattened, and she knew he’d just recalled their conversation from last night, the one where he’d told her firmly he didn’t discuss his past.