Chapter One Angel
Read on for a sneak peek of the second book in the High-Flying Romance series!
Chapter One
Angel
I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.
—SUSAN SONTAG
I only need to collect nineteen more travel charms for my bracelet in the next four months to reach my goal of visiting thirty countries by my thirtieth birthday. That may seem like an impossible feat, but it’ll be much easier now that I’m getting paid to travel the world.
“Welcome to the lavish world of Elite Class.” The other flight attendant working with me on my maiden flight speaks in a low tone, as if there’s a need for reverence among the rows of lie-flat seats bathed in cool purple lighting and the soothing scent of diffused lavender.
Natalie and I just met, but judging by her perfect posture and hands clasped behind her back, she’s someone I would expect to meet in Regency England rather than on a state-of-the-art Airbus.
She watches from the forward galley while I distribute clear zippered pouches filled with promotional toiletry items, my heels sinking into the unexpectedly plush carpet.
Or perhaps the carpet is simply sticky with spilled drinks, which makes my soles feel like they’re sinking.
Either way I’ll change into my favorite chunky loafers after passengers fall asleep.
I simply want to start the flight looking as fancy as the gold packaging around the shea butter lip balm and hand lotion in these kits.
Well, fancier preferably. I wear my Air Elite’s signature plum-colored wrap dress with pride.
I don’t want to brag, but I’m pretty sure it was designed for me.
As for my blond lob (long bob), I’ll have to pull it back with a claw clip once we start serving meals, but for now its waves bounce as I move.
“Ooh . . .” I set down a zippered pouch on the side console of the final seat, freeing my manicured nails to snap a small remote control out of the entertainment system’s plastic framing. “They didn’t have remotes on my last international flight.”
Natalie doesn’t move, but her dark eyes give Cinderella’s stepmother vibes. “I thought you said this was your first time working Air Elite.”
“Oh, it is.” I fumble the remote before catching it and plugging the slick little guy back into place. “This is my debut as a flight attendant for this airline, but I’ve been a passenger before.”
Natalie sniffs. “Remote controls aren’t in coach class.”
“Right. Um, yeah. Neither was I.” I’m not trying to rub it in that I might have been one of the wealthy travelers she’s served in the past, but . . . well, I might have been.
Her stare asks what I’m doing here now as a glorified waitress, though she doesn’t voice the question. Instead, smooth jazz music swirls around us, announcing the beginning of our boarding process.
A tall flight attendant with an adorable black pixie cut sticks her head around the dividing curtain, currently pinned to one side between her cabin and ours.
She offers a smile so brilliant it makes me wish I could wear red lipstick without smearing it everywhere.
I honestly don’t think there are many people who can pull off red lipstick, but Shoshana is one of them.
Or, she appears to be. I can’t state this as a fact, since I met her only fifteen minutes ago.
Maybe in another fifteen her teeth will have crimson dots that give her the appearance of a vampire, but by then we’ll be close enough that I could tell her—she’d probably just laugh so hard she’d have trouble getting through her announcements. Announcements are the worst.
“Hey, girl. You ready to party?” she asks me.
See? We’re friends already.
Natalie clears her throat.
Shoshana’s glistening ruby lips arc downward for a fraction of a second, but then she meets my gaze and lights up all over again. “By party, I mean when we get to Paris, of course. After being stuck in this metal tube forty thousand feet above the ocean for nine hours.”
“You make our job sound so appealing.” I’m not a partier, but I am a people person. Even on overcrowded metal tubes.
“Lucky for you, you’re in Elite Class, where you can snag yourself a CEO.” She wiggles her fingers in a wave before disappearing.
If she only knew. I huff and turn to retrieve my tray for serving predeparture beverages, but Natalie is blocking the aisle. If looks could kill, she’d be the Grim Reaper.
Is she concerned I’m only here to flirt with billionaires? “Don’t worry. I’m done with relationships. Especially with the entitled elite.”
“Being that we’re Air Elite, your statement includes every man on this aircraft.”
I refuse to flinch. “Yes, it does.”
She pulls my tray out from behind her back, as if she’s planning to be one step ahead of me this whole flight. How exhausting for her.
I’ll simply accept the tray. “Thank you.”
The sooner we get passengers boarded, the sooner we can get out of Atlanta. It’s a little too close to home for me, though by home I mean my hometown, not where I live now.
Most flights I’m assigned will originate from my base in Seattle, but the company brought me down here to finish training, then took me off my deadhead back to the Pacific Northwest to assign me this Paris trip.
Having worked at a regional airline before, such unpredictability doesn’t faze me anymore.
I may not have packed for France, but what a great excuse to buy a beret.
Natalie retreats into the galley, then reappears in the other aisle across the middle row from me, which is her boarding station. I can’t help but wish I’d been assigned someone more pleasant to work with.
I refocus on my passengers. I’ll let them find their seats and settle in before I jump them for drink orders. Some slide their suitcases smoothly into place, while others look like they slept in the airport and still haven’t woken up yet.
“Does Shoshana ever work in Elite Class?” I ask.
“Never.” Natalie remains facing straight ahead. “I once caught her tossing a cookie to a guest, and as the chief purser, I had to report her for unprofessionalism.”
There are worse things than tossing cookies. Unless Natalie is using the slang meaning of the phrase, though I wouldn’t take her for a slang kind of person. Rather, the statement comes across as a veiled threat.
I suck in a deep breath before I can stop myself. Swallowing air triggers my acid reflux, as does eating too quickly, chewing gum, using a straw, and obviously, drinking carbonated beverages. Despite my attempt at seeming ladylike, I tend to burp a lot.
This is the real reason I hate making announcements.
Belching over the PA is as unprofessional as it is embarrassing.
Others may think me rude, but I’m just over here trying to keep the bile in my stomach from burning a hole in my esophagus.
I look forward to visiting countries where burping after a meal is a compliment.
An elderly couple takes their seats in the first row and clasp hands.
I glance down at the cheat sheet I’ve scribbled on the liner of my tray to remind me of names and keep track of orders. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Ventura. My name is Angel, and I’ll be serving y’all on tonight’s flight. Can I get you anything to drink before we take off?”
“Nice to meet you, Angel.” Mr. Ventura is distinguished, with lean strength and a full head of silver hair parted to one side.
I have the distinct impression he’s not up here because he thinks he’s great.
He’s up here because he makes other people feel like they can be great.
Which is true greatness. “We’re celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Do you have any champagne?”
My heart rings like a fork tapped against a crystal flute. I want to celebrate with them, despite the reminder of my single status. “Certainly.”
I pivot into the galley and hunt down paper cups used for predeparture beverages so we can clean up quickly for takeoff. Later on we’ll bring out the linens and glassware.
The interphone chimes. I grab the receiver and cradle it against my shoulder so my hands are free to dig expensive bubbly from the refrigerated drawer. “Hey.”
“Check out 8A.”
It’s Shoshana’s smooth voice, but I have no idea what she’s talking about. Is the seat broken or does the passenger have an issue?
“Did they push their Call button?” I didn’t hear anything, and I know this because I’ve been trained to look up at the sound of a chime. Even when I’m not working a flight, I look up automatically.
Her laughter tinkles. “No. Check out the guy in 8A. He’s one of those men who is so nice and nerdy that he doesn’t realize how attractive he is.”
I envision Clark Kent. “Good for him.”
“Good for you.”
I’m not interested. Also, I’ve got work to do. My old airline served sparkling wine from cans, so I’m a little concerned about popping the cork on this baby. If I’m not careful, it could ping around the galley dangerously, like when Han Solo shot his blaster in the trash compactor.
Thankfully, Natalie walks in. I hold out the bottle for help.
She arches a skinny eyebrow in disapproval but takes it anyway. Perhaps she’s also envisioning the scene from Star Wars.
I need to end this call so Natalie can see I’m truly a hard worker and won’t make her do everything. “You can have him.” I offer Shoshana dibs on 8A and hang up.
Natalie twists the key on the champagne a few times, then tilts the bottle at an angle and turns it from the bottom.
At the sound of a small pop, my stomach warms with pressure, as if I swallowed the carbonation myself.
Before I have time to deal with the remains of PTSD from the last fateful night I drank champagne, she extends the bottle to me.
I scramble to accept the chilled glass and convince myself everything is normal. “Thanks.”
Everything is normal. Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad is going to happen. Passengers are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. This is a good thing.