Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
cove
“Keep your face always toward the sunshine and shadows will fall behind you.”
Walt Whitman
“The usual, Ms. Davenport?”
I nod to the bartender and watch, fascinated, as he crafts my dirty martini. It’s nothing fancy. Just a healthy pour of vodka, a bit of dry vermouth, and three blue cheese olives with a spritz of brine.
It’s my go-to order, yet for some reason, tonight, I’m suddenly interested in tracing the steps; the way Monty knows the exact amount to mix without having to measure the ingredients.
I wish I could relate. That there was a thing in my life that I excelled so well at that I was never questioned about my qualifications.
Like with the asshat on the jet earlier, for instance.
I never expected taking his order to be such a difficult concept for him to grasp. Or the fact that I questioned him. Why do we have to work twice as hard as men to earn the same amount of respect? To be seen as an equal and have an earned place at the table.
It drives me mad. And I’ll continue to make my place known with or without approval. I didn’t secure my role as Miami’s lead flight attendant with Seascape Private Charters by sitting in a corner and letting a man tell me how to reach the top.
I did that all on my own.
It’s also why I’m first in line to be offered jobs declined, or the ones assigned to another attendant based on personal preference by the client. I rarely receive complaints, and I’m not sure if that’s a reflection of my attitude or the arrogance that comes with serving wealthy clientele.
Either way, I love my job. And that’s the best part: it doesn’t feel like work. I’m single. I get to travel and meet new people, all while coming back home after trips to the comfort of my penthouse in the city.
The bartender slips a napkin and a fresh dirty martini in front of me before sauntering off to other customers. I sip the dry liquor and hum at the bitter sensation on my tongue.
Fuel-ups are the short intermissions where I have freedom to drown out the noise, and as of late, the noise of life has been suffocating in my head.
But when I’m in the air, it’s game time.
Whether my day has been glorious from start to finish, or awful enough to have me craving the start of a new morning, it’s imperative I have it all together.
Or appear that way, at least.
Faking it is something that comes naturally to me.
I like to think I mastered that trait the moment my father abandoned my mom and me.
The image of him is nearly burned in the back of my brain, and masking the pain that accompanied the image feels like nothing more than a ritual.
Now, at thirty, I can replicate a dashing daughter, confident flight attendant, and prideful woman in my sleep.
No guidance or directions required.
The private airport we stopped at in Phoenix to refuel between flights is quiet for a Sunday afternoon, immediately making me regret not bringing my book for this trip. The wise words of Jane Austen could be gracing my thoughts right now instead of mindless chatter.
There aren’t many passengers waiting for their connecting charters compared to the staff groupings that currently rest among the two boarding areas.
That’s one of my favorite parts about flying privately.
I cater to a certain crowd, and that particular crowd is always small. Typically, no more than eight people, and the smaller groups are the ones I prefer to service.
They tip better, and I can use all the money I can get at this point.
Sometimes those tips come at the cost of dignity and diminishing self-worth because, for whatever reason, wealthy people enjoy being royal assholes. They assume just because someone waits on them that they’re below them. Less than. Living below the middle class.
They have no idea the life I’ve built for myself, and I like to keep it that way. Calling them out on their shit is my favorite thing to do, and I have yet to walk away with anything but excellent wages. Sometimes, rich people just love being degraded.
Bottom line: tenacity will take you far.
And I’ve got it.
“I’d say you deserve that drink,” a deep, and slightly Southern voice startles me. I spin to face the man behind it, surprised to find Stetson Cole.
He’s gotta be close to six-six in height. Deep tan skin. Glassy blue eyes with the slightest smile lines at the corners. Although this is my first time flying for Stetson on his jet, I’ve heard all about the Texan cowboy.
He’s in his late forties, but fucking hell, you’d never know it.
A satisfied smirk greets me, likely recognizing my blatant perusal of his appearance. I’m definitely staring, with no intention of being polite right now. Truthfully, I’m trying to pinpoint the thing that makes him such a sought-after bachelor.
“Your friend is a real pain in my ass,” I tell him, turning back to my martini and watching the murky liquid swirl in the glass.
“Respectfully?” he questions, and I can hear the humor behind his tone as he takes the seat beside me.
I sip my drink and can feel his massive frame as close as he can get. “I mean that as disrespectfully as possible, Mr. Cole.”
A hearty chuckle escapes him. “Fair enough.” He signals for the bartender to come over and orders himself a drink. “Scotch. Johnny Walker.”
The bartender nods, and silence fills the space between us, but I don’t miss the low chuckle he attempts to cover after ordering his scotch.
What is he doing?
Men of Stetson’s wealth have private suites they lounge in during layovers. They certainly don’t entertain the help at the airport bar.
At least that’s what my experience thus far has led me to believe, and I’ve been in the private airline industry for most of my adult life. Not once has a client followed me to the bar for a drink.
“And please. Call me Stetson. Fuck the formality.”
I cross my legs for comfort, and also as a way of distraction before I turn to face him again. He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his breath coast across the skin at my neck, yet he still keeps an appropriate distance. At least, I tell myself that.
I’m not in the mood for games and definitely don’t want to spend my very short break having to be professional with a client.
“Okay, Stetson,” I say, my words coming across as a challenge. “How about you tell me what you’re doing here?”
The bartender slides Stetson his drink, and my eyes never leave him as he hands his black card to the bartender and points to my drink as well, signaling he’ll cover my tab. I don’t draw attention to the gesture. I can cover my own bill. That’s never been an issue for me.
But I’m not about to turn down a free drink. I just won’t make him aware I noticed.
I’m prideful like that.
“Well, Cove. I can tell you it’s exactly what it looks like.”
“And what’s that?”
He takes a long pull of his scotch, and his Adam’s apple bobs like a goddamn sin as the sharp liquor glides down the back of his throat.
I never did like dark liquor.
He leans his face in closer. Not by much, but enough that my heart rate picks up speed, and the feeling makes me want to do anything to make it stop. There’s no doubt he’s handsome. Sun-kissed brown hair with specks of gray, matching the scruff of his beard.
Stetson Cole is a heartthrob, and I can now confirm all the rumors are true. The Texan cowboy has an irresistible charm. All it took was one-on-one attention from him for me to notice.
Good thing for me, I’m immune to his kind of allure.
“I’m here to have a drink.” He holds up his glass for good measure before placing it carefully on the napkin. “And I’m also here to apologize on behalf of my friend. Although calling him a friend after disrespecting you feels a bit painful. We’ll call him a colleague.”
“Not even necessary,” I tell him. “I’d never survive in this business if I let every power-hungry man get to me.”
It’s true. For most of my life, I was raised without a male role model.
I’m fatherless, and that’s something I accepted at the ripe age of twenty-one, sadly thinking there was a mistake.
I was convinced that maybe my father didn’t know about me and was looking for me all along.
Maybe he got amnesia somehow, someway, and forgot I ever existed?
Sounds too good to be true.
After endless digging to find him and an accidental encounter later, I was proven very wrong. While I realize I could let that affect me in a way that makes me use men to fill a void, all it’s done is wire me to be the opposite.
I refuse to let them get close. I’ll occupy myself with meaningless physical connections, but nothing more. It has to be that way.
If my own father betrayed me and didn’t think I was enough to stick around for, why should I expect any other to do the same?
I know what I deserve, and I refuse to be another reason a man doesn’t stay. And just to serve my father with a giant fuck you, I changed my last name back to my mother’s maiden name, Davenport.
Because Nathaniel McIntosh deserves to feel abandoned himself.
“Why have I never seen you before?” Stetson asks, summoning my attention again. I don’t know how long we’ve sat in silence, but it’s long enough for me to finish my martini and round up the bartender for another.
But for some god-awful reason, Stetson holds out a hand to stop him. I jerk my head toward him, seconds away from giving this entitled cowboy a piece of my mind. “Is there a reason you just—”
“We should be boarding soon.”
I cut him a blank stare. “Your point?”
A quiet buzz warms my body, every sense inside of me on high alert. Stetson may be gorgeous, but he’s mistaken if he thinks I’ll jump when he tells me to.
As long as I’m able to perform to the best of my abilities at my job, I’m warranted a drink or two during flight changes. Add in the company at my side, and I’ve never been more sober.
Stetson nods, choosing not to argue. “Forget I mentioned it. I have a tendency to overstep sometimes.”