Chapter One Angel #2
“Now you’ll be able to open it next time instead of gossiping with Shoshana about guests.” She’s gone before I can defend myself. Not that I have a solid defense.
You know what’s worse than trying? Trying so hard you somehow make things worse.
I shake my head and choose to let it go. I will not aim the cork at Natalie next time I open a bottle of champagne. I will not aim the cork at Natalie next time I open a bottle of champagne.
Picking up my tray, I paste on a smile. Though I do have things to smile about.
Air Elite hired me. I’m working my first trip overseas. Granted, I’ve been to Paris before, and it won’t add any charms to my bracelet, but I still get to eat macarons on the Eiffel Tower this week if I so desire. And I’m earning my way to Europe rather than relying on someone else’s dime.
My smile softens with authenticity, and I step into the cabin.
I can cruise along the Seine. I can tour Notre Dame. I can scooter to the Louvre.
“Hubba-hubba.” This from Mr. Ventura. He looks at the tray like he’s being served in crystal at a 1940s ballroom with its own orchestra and radio show.
I hand the couple their paper cups of expensive bubbly and announce its brand name and vineyard location, the way we were trained. “Or as true wine connoisseurs would say, hubba-hubba.”
They both erupt with the kind of joyful laughter that makes them my favorite passengers.
Mrs. Ventura squeezes my hand. Hers are as cold as the champagne bottle but much softer. “Thank you, dear. You’re a delight. Much like our granddaughter.”
“Or, as a true grandparent would say”—Mr. Ventura played off my earlier joke—“you’re the bee’s knees.”
Mrs. Ventura turns my hand over to look at my bare ring finger. “You’re going to make some boy really lucky one day.”
Again with the huff. But then I catch myself and accept the woman’s well-wishes like the compliment I’m sure it’s intended to be. “Bless your heart.” She can take that any way she wants.
I don’t blame a happily married couple for expecting me to want what they have. There was a time when I did. When I gave up college to marry a guy who promised me the world. Sadly, not everyone keeps their promises.
I continue running drinks, and I’m okay. Really, I am. It’s been three years. I’ve moved on, and I’m doing well. In fact, some would even say I’m the bee’s knees.
I’d totally forgotten about 8A until I’m at the last seat on aircraft left. Though with the way this guy is crawling around on the floor, I still can’t see his face.
It’s not every day you find a first-class passenger crawling around on the floor. Even when a dude once broke his glass in flight, he remained seated and let me clean it up. My guess is this man lost an AirPod. I hope I don’t have to call for maintenance to remove the seat and a wall panel again.
“Can I help you?”
He jerks, hitting his head on the built-in side table, and I’m still waiting to see what Shoshana saw.
From this angle I can only make out the back of the passenger’s light-blue button-down and charcoal chinos.
He’s not big and buff, so he can’t be Superman in disguise.
He has more of a runner’s build, so maybe The Flash?
“I dropped my remote control,” he says, and there’s something familiar in his warm tone. No Southern drawl, as could be expected from this area. Remembering the people I grew up with, I’m relieved. However, this man’s tone is still just as thoughtful. And a little distracted.
Of course, I caught him in the middle of a recovery mission.
“If I were a rascally remote control, where would I be?” I fold my knees together and bend to peek underneath the seat in front of him. Lots of odd angles and shadows for hiding. Thankfully, I have a small penlight hooked to my lanyard.
I click the button and shine a beam along the metal edge of the seat’s base. A black rectangle peeks out from gray carpet.
“I apologize,” the man says. “It seems silly to have been using a remote when I could have literally reached out and pressed buttons on the screen.”
“Well, they don’t have remotes in coach class.” I lower fully onto my knees and drop my chest toward the floor so I can reach for the piece of plastic in question. “You probably paid a couple thousand dollars for this luxury, so you might as well use it.”
He chuckles derisively. “Believe me, I didn’t pay for this. It’s a business perk.”
“Even better.” The tips of my fingers barely reach the tiny remote. Unfortunately, it’s not close enough to grasp, so I tap one edge, rotating the opposite edge my way. “I’ve got it.”
All the while, my brain is running through its database of familiar voices. Not a match . . . Not a match . . . Not a match . . . Goodness, I’d known a lot of people in my old life.
I pull my elbow back to untangle myself from the oversized seat.
“Thank you.” The man sounds sincere, and for a moment my throbbing pulse subsides. Then he says, “I may not be thrilled about getting sent to Europe for the next three years to expand my company’s hotel chain . . .”
Warning . . . Warning . . . Warning . . .
“ . . . but at least Dalton Hotels is sending me in style.”
My mental database pulls up a face to match the tone. Sirens go off in my head, and I freeze right there with my butt in the air. Because as much as I wished I’d had time to revert to my maiden name before starting this career, my passport identifies me as Angel Dalton.
And I know exactly who I’ll be facing as soon as I lift myself upright.
Graham Garrison. The best man in my wedding. The guy who introduced me to my ex-husband. Or should I say, pawned me off? After being what I’d mistaken as a fabulous first date.
Is there any chance I can simply turn and crawl away? Natalie’s wrath does not compare to this impending humiliation.
But why should I be humiliated? I’m not the one who did anything wrong. I was the victim. And now is my chance to rise from the ashes. To hold my head high. To spread my wings and . . . well, you know.
If I should be humiliated about anything, it would be the fact I’m still in a yoga pose designed for relaxation while working my first day on the job. If only my heart rate had received the memo about relaxation.
Follow your heart, they say. But mine wants to pull me down into the cargo bin.
With pure rebellion—against my own feelings as well as any judgments held against me—I force a demure smile and push up to a kneeling position. Then I hold out the remote to 8A, hoping the surprise in his wide, blinking brown eyes is not reflected in my own.
Imagine, if you will, the cute nerd from college.
He was intelligent, but not in a smarty-pants way.
Though too kind to be a know-it-all, he knew things.
He’d just hang out with his hands in his pockets, smiling at the dramatic irony around him while avoiding the drama.
He could give good advice too, because he saw life objectively and a bit humorously.
In fact, he cared. Which was why all the girls loved him but never dated him.
So he was friends with the guys too. They didn’t have any reason to feel threatened.
Until now.
Graham Garrison still appears to be a nice guy.
He wears glasses, as Shoshana implied. But his thick brown hair is longish enough to be a bit messy on top and is highlighted with caramel streaks by the sun, while darker scruff draws a heart around his mouth.
Nobody should be this attractive without some tragic flaw, like indigestion.
I may have known who I would see when I looked up . . . I just didn’t expect this man.