Like all guys worth having (and even some that aren't) he had a girlfriend when I met him. I'm a big sucker for things I can't have. For example, there are those shoes in the back of my closet that are an entire size too small but were marked down 60%. I managed to squeeze my toes into them just long enough to convince the wary salesgirl that I was completely insane. They've sat on a shelf in their box ever since. I guess you could say I'm a bit compulsive.
My ex says I'm neurotic, which I think is a bit hysterical since he's the one who made me that way. A girl can only handle her man having to "work late" so many times before it officially starts to fuck with her brain. Oh, Jesus, I wasn't going to bring him up. This is not His story. This is about Glenn.
Glenn is from Boston -- complete with the accent and attitude to match. On a lot of people, Boston sounds a little trashy but on Glenn it sounds rough around the edges and hot and did I mention that the man works construction? Fuck me three ways from Sunday, I Love a man who can fix things.
Also, I grew up in Denver. It's pretty but it's chock full of people who pronounce their r's. In short, really nothing to write home about, so plop me on a plane seat next to someone from New England and hope to God I packed a fresh pair of panties in my carry-on bag. Coincidentally, this is how Glenn and I first met... sort of.
I was on a flight from New York back to LA, with a layover in Chicago and I was trying to get caught up on some work. I'm a photographer for a magazine in Orange County that promotes the lifestyles of the fakely tanned and obnoxiously wealthy. Sometimes I also got sucked into writing ridiculously dull copy to accompany my artwork, something I was unapologetically behind on. I kept staring at my picture of an Infinity pool with buoy-like fake breasts bobbing on its surface but nothing witty was coming to mind. I guess I should point out that the breasts were accompanied by the rest of a fairly cougarlicious body but trust me, the cleavage was a much bigger selling point than the bra length platinum hair and sixth face lift.
"Douchebag," a tall, well muscled man mumbled under his breath as the flamboyant flight attendant continued to push his cart down the aisle.
I had missed the part of the interaction where the hot guy had been cut off but I found that I just couldn't get back into my work now that I had glanced up and saw well muscled forearms leading to clinched fists with the veins popping out slightly - a sure sign of someone who uses their hands for more than playing piano or typing a term paper. I sat there checking out the curve of his bicep peeking out from underneath the short sleeve of his t-shirt and began visualizing him fixing a roof or gutting a wall with a sledge hammer.
He turned to glare at the retreating cart and I caught a glimpse of his face. He wore a Red Sox ball cap, which left just the sideburns and bottom of his dark brown hair visible. He also had thick eyebrows, brown eyes and luscious red lips... I let out a sexually frustrated sigh and began to contemplate sucking on his bottom lip. I guess I forgot to quit staring in his direction as I did so though because after a minute I felt someone tap me on my shoulder.
"A picture lasts longer sweetheart," a higher pitched voice informed me. Allow me to clarify a point. I love, love, love the Boston accent on men. On women it sounds masculine and terrible and really really unattractive. Of course, I also don't fantasize about joining the mile high club with women, so maybe that has something to do with it.
"Excuse me?" I was really into my day dream envisioning the guy in nothing but a tool belt and I was having a hard time pulling myself back into the present.
"You're fucking drooling over my boyfriend and I think it's only fair to let you know that if you don't cut that shit out, I'm gonna kick your fucking ass."
Quite the mouth on this one, let me tell you. Finally my eyes were able to focus in on her face. She was sitting in the seat next to me, across the aisle from the hot guy. If they were together, why weren't the sitting next to each other? Well, I guess technically they were... maybe they just both loved aisle seats. She was skinny with unnaturally jet black hair and enough eyeliner to supply the Playboy mansion on Halloween. Minus her god awful accent and poor makeup choices, she was probably decent to look at, if you went for that whole "please feed me a sandwich while you search for my ass" look. I contemplated forming an excuse but what was the point? I Had been checking out her boyfriend, assuming she wasn't lying about their relationship. I wasn't about to polygraph her. I kind of like my nose where it is, you know? I just mumbled sorry and buried my likable nose back into my work.
The next few minutes I got to hear them argue back and forth, his deep sexy voice telling her she was rude, her nasally annoying tone calling me all kinds of names. Apparently he won the argument because she got up and went to the bathroom looking incredibly displeased.
"Hey, sorry about that. She can be a real bitch some times," he said to me once she was out of earshot.
"Don't sweat it. If you were mine, I'd fight off random passengers too," I smiled. Ok, so I'm a flirt. It's probably going to result in me getting my ass kicked, but he was just so... productive looking. "I'm sorry for staring at you and causing you to fight with your girlfriend. It's pretty rude."
He raised one eyebrow at me. Oh GOD, I love that. Big lips and the ability to move his eyebrows independently of each other... Even retelling the story I feel the need for a little Me time, "So you were staring at me? You're awfully ballsy to just come out and say so. You must be from New York."
"Not a chance," I answered shaking my head in a way that caused my straight red hair to sway slightly, "I'm a Cali girl. Well, these days anyway. My name's Parker, by the way."
"Glenn," he said reaching out a hand to shake mine. Oh God, the calluses on his hands made me tingle.
