12. CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
M ICAH
Carly still seems struck silent with disbelief, and it’s an adorable look on her.
The black midsize private jet waits behind us, along with a full eight-person crew that stands beside the descended stairs in welcome.
Carly still hasn’t said a word.
I resist the urge to grin triumphantly, although the jet is sadly not mine. While my family does own a private jet, I’m currently banned from using it until I “see reason.” Plus, even if I wasn’t banned, using the family private jet would make it easier for my dad to spy on me and make it likelier that he would figure out what I was up to.
So instead, I asked an old college friend to borrow his jet.
It cost me a favor and a few thousand dollars, but it’s worth it to see the look of absolute awe on Carly’s face as she steps out of the car.
“Like it?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.” She nods slowly. “Are we really going to ride in that thing?”
“Yup,” I respond, amused at her sudden grin.
“Eek! I can’t believe it!” She skips a few times and beams with barely bridled excitement. “Little old Carly riding in a private jet. I feel like a Kardashian.”
I laugh then, her joy contagious. I’m typically not excited by things like this. I’ve ridden in private jets enough times that this is nothing special to me anymore, but watching Carly’s excitement reminds me of the first time I was brought on one when I was six.
“Shall we?” I ask her, looking forward to seeing her expression at the interior.
“Uh-huh,” she says and takes my hand as we walk to the stairs. A sudden gust of sharp wind blows her hair into my face, and I smell her vanilla-scented shampoo. Delicious. It makes me want to grab her close and inhale her, but I resist the urge as we approach the plane.
She greets all the staff as we ascend, and I follow suit even though I almost never do that. Usually, when I’m boarding a private jet ,I’m in a conversation with someone or on my phone. Chatting with the staff isn’t something that comes to mind.
But Carly gives them all the whole midwestern, “How y’all doing?” and actually waits for their murmured response before continuing up the stairs. As she enters the jets, her eyes go to the star-studded gold-paneled ceiling, her jaw falling open.
“It’s like I’m looking at the stars indoors,” she declares.
“Yeah, that’s the intended effect,” I say.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Uh-huh.” But I’m not looking up. I’m looking at her instead.
I’ve mostly seen Carly calm and collected, whether amused or vaguely annoyed. The only time she loses that measured control is when she’s lost in the throes of passion.
But seeing her like this, filled with childish glee, triggers a whole different sensation within me. I can’t help but notice that when she’s like this, she glows so beautifully.
My eyes follow her as she starts down the aisle toward the seats on the left.
Customary monogrammed cashmere blankets are folded on the seats and Carly takes one as she sits by the windows. She giggles to herself and then immediately starts fiddling with the seatbelts trying to hook it on.
“You don’t have to put that on right now,” I tell her, smiling.
“Oh.” She blushes. “Sorry. I’ve never been on a plane before,” she admits as I settle beside her. “I always hear people complaining about the legroom, but either it’s not as bad as I thought it would be or I’m really short.”
“More like this isn’t indicative of most planes. Economy class does indeed have shitty legroom.” Not that I would know. I’ve never flown economy in my life.
As we settle down, one of the flight attendants, a blonde with her hair in a carefully coiffed bun at the back of her head strolls to us, her hands folded in front of her.
“Welcome aboard, sir, madam.” She gives a perfunctory smile and then continues, “The pilot has indicated we can take off in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, is there anything you would like to eat? Drink? We have champagne and several types of wine, and we can also order directly from the airport if you would like.”
When Carly’s eyes travel to me, I remain silent, letting her decide.
“Ugh, sure, I guess wine would be okay,” she says.
“Eh!” I make the sound of a buzzer, making both women start. “Wrong answer.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t just ask for wine,” I tell her. “That indicates a lack of education on the subject. You have to be more specific.”
Carly raises her eyebrow. “But I am uneducated on the subject. Wine is just wine to me.”
“Yeah, but you can’t show that. Especially not in front of my grandfather.” I sigh, anticipating that this is going to be harder than I thought. “Listen, there’s several intricacies and subtext behind certain wine options and your choice says about you. If you were indeed a wealthy socialite, this is probably something you would have been taught in any etiquette class or prep school you attended. And so it’s something Grandpa’s going to expect you to know.”
“Okay. So what do I say?”
“Well, it depends. What do you like to drink? Tart, sweet, white, red?”
“I guess sweet and white is fine.”
“So a chardonnay?”
“Sure.” She turns back to the flight attendant. “I would like a chardonnay, please.”
“Eh!” I buzz loudly again. “Wrong choice again. Chardonnay is too common, plebeian even. No respectable high-society lady drinks that, because it’s what wannabe’s order. Plus, that shit’s disgusting. “
The flight attendant snorts and Carly rolls her eyes, clearly starting to get annoyed. “Then why did you even suggest it?”
“That, my dear, is what we call classic misdirection. Or a trick question. You’ll have to get used to it because my grandfather is the king of that.”
She sighs. “Okay, I’ll get used to it later, but for now, can you just tell me what wine to order?”
I think about it. “Get the Montrachet. Not too sweet, and just refined enough to suit the taste buds. Not trendy and most importantly, not disgusting.”
She nods and then turns to the flight attendant. “I guess I would like Montrachet please.”
“That’s not how you say it,” I say and nearly see the vein tick at the side of her forehead. “ Montrachet . You have to sound more dignified, more… snooty. Otherwise, they’ll know instantly you’re not who you say you are. Certain places may not even serve you if you don’t have the right accent. Remember the shopping scene in Pretty Woman ? When the shop attendants were mean to Julia Roberts and she came back and bought the whole place up as a result?”
“That’s not what happened.” Carly frowns. “She went shopping elsewhere, then came back and rubbed it in their face.”
“Aha!” I point. “So you have watched it! And you must have enjoyed it to remember a detail like that.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it, I said it was overrated and unrealistic.”
I scowl. “You’re overrated and unrealistic.” Not the most mature answer, but I don’t like hearing one of my childhood classics maligned like that.
She rolls her eyes this time and then tells the flight attendant. “Ignore him. I think he was dropped too many times on the head as a child. Can I please have the Montrachet ? And imagine I just said that in the snootiest voice possible.”
“Of course, madam.” The woman looks like she’s trying to hold back a laugh as she turns to me. “Anything else for you, sir?”
“I’ll have the same.” Although I probably won’t have more than a glass because I need to stay focused for the rest of the day. Apart from shopping, there’s so much to teach her, so much for her to learn. My young, pretty padawan.
As the flight attendant walks away, I tell Carly, “Alright. Now, it’s time to learn how to sit like a high-society lady.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Right now? Before the wine?”
“Yes, before the wine.” This requires all the focus we can manage. “Now this is one of the most important things you can learn for this ruse to work. You have to sit like British royalty. This one is called the Sussex slant. Let me demonstrate.” I shift into position and clear my throat. “You sit up straight, chin up, shoulders back. And then you slide one leg over the other like that. Then you put it to the side.”
She snorts and then slaps her hand over her mouth to hide her snicker. “Are you sure about that? That looks wrong.”
“Of course, I’m sure.” I give her my most dignified snooty look that only makes her snort harder. “I called up a lady I used to date, who was an etiquette teacher. Also watched a few YouTube videos.” Not to mention I’ve been around high-society girls all my life. I’ve seen them sit like this plenty of times. “Now you try.”
She’s still grinning as she obeys, but as she tries to get in the position, doubt fills her features. “Yeah, this definitely feels wrong.”
“That’s because you’re twisting your legs together like snakes. Here, do it like this. And make sure you sit up straight!”
She tries but the more she does, the more comical it gets until she finally gives up in fits of laughter. I have to smile too. Maybe I need to get a real high-society girl to teach her. Ironic that I used to avoid them like a plague and now I’m trying to turn Carly into one of them.
We keep trying, although the attempts get sloppier after a few glasses of wine. And then when we finally land in LA, we take a limo to Beverly Hills, and I watch Carly’s eyes glow as she takes in the city, the skyscrapers, and the glittering neon lights, the pulsing energy of the city.
And also, the late evening traffic.
“Damn. I forgot how annoying driving through the city was,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s exactly how I would describe a stretch limo ride in one of the most glamorous cities in the world,” Carly quips, glancing at me with twinkling eyes. “Annoying.”
I chuckle.
Eventually, we end up on Rodeo Drive, walking down the stretch of stores, with Carly subtly pointing out some fellow stretch-walkers carrying absurdly tiny dogs. We laugh at it together, but then she pulls to a stop near our destination, when a boy of about ten in ratty clothes approaches tentatively.
“E-Excuse me,” he stammers, twisting his fingers in his hands. “D-do you have any change to spare?”
She stares at him for a few seconds, in horror and pity. I can see her heart melting and then she reaches into her pocket emptying out a few twenties from it.
“You got anything?” she asks me and I shake my head. She’s about to hand him the cash she dug up but I reach out and snag her wrists.
She frowns at me. “What?”
I shake my head again subtly, not wanting to get into it in front of the boy. But Carly is stubborn.
“Let go.” She attempts to tug her hand out of my hold, but I don’t release it.
“Don’t do it,” I tell her. “It’s a ruse.”
“What are you even talking about?”
Before I can explain, the boy gets visibly nervous and darts away.
“Hey!” Carly calls after him but he doesn’t look back. “Great, now you scared him.”
“Good,” I say, receiving an outraged look. “It’s a scam, Carly. Usually anyways. The parents set the kids up to go and beg on their behalf because everyone is far more eager to help homeless kids than adults.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she argues back. “He was clearly hungry or at least in need of help.”
“There are a lot of initiatives here that can reach out and help people like him. Donate to them instead.”
“And what makes you think those are any less corrupt than the boy’s parents? You know that up to seventy percent of money given to charities end up in the CEO’s pockets?”
“That’s probably not entirely true or at least it’s largely dependent on the charity. Just do your research when donating or better yet, set up your own charity and help people like him.”
Carly makes a face.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. You said ‘people like him’ twice and you just… you say it so carelessly.”
“How else was I supposed to say it?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Never mind.”
I want to press the issue but I don’t have to. I already know she thinks I’m a callous bastard. And maybe I am, but at least on this issue I’m pretty sure I’m right. I used to give cash to kids like that too all the time, whenever I saw them around LA. But after learning the truth, and actually catching one of the parents in the act of coaching their daughter, I got disgusted by the exploitation of the children and I just couldn’t feed into it anymore.
But Carly doesn’t care. In her eyes, I’m just a selfish, rich asshole who hates poor kids. It’s a little frustrating that she’s not even trying to see my side here.
She’s still annoyed as we head inside, but when we get to a store on the first floor her annoyance retreats behind wonder. The store looks like it’s made entirely of glass and white crystals.
“It looks just like in Pretty Woman ,” Carly gasps.
“It’s better,” I tell her as we step inside, instantly assailed by the soothing scent of eucalyptus and rosy perfumes.
One of the attendants instantly recognizes me and makes a beeline in my direction. “Welcome back, sir!”
“Glad to be back,” I tell her. “My fiancée is looking for a few items for a bunch of events we’ll be attending. Think you can help her?”
“Of course,” she says and then gently but firmly guides Carly behind a shelf of designer bags, to look at fabrics and clothes.
Carly throws me an apprehensive look as she goes but she doesn’t protest. I wink in response.
Once she’s gone, I approach the jewelry counter, mildly looking through a few pieces and chatting with the other attendant as I wait. Time passes as I make a few selections, and I get lost in thoughts of Carly draped in only jewelry.
Suddenly, I hear from behind me, “How do I look?”
I turn to look at Carly to give a measured response.... and every semblance of diction flees my mind as I nearly swallow my tongue.