Chapter 8
JAMIE
It’s been one week since I first saw Morgan Hunter, tumbled embarrassingly fast into heat, and only avoided making a fool of myself by sheer luck.
And now I’m about to go on a global tour with her.
I’ve flown a few times for academic conferences and to visit my grandparents when I was a kid, but it’s been at least five years since I’ve been out of the country.
I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something, and I dig through my apartment for what it might be. But I’ve got my passport, my phone, and my credit card, so that’s gotta be good enough.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder, grab my new floral suitcase, and drag it to the train.
The train seems like a good idea at first—might as well save the company the forty bucks for a rideshare if I can—but when the train sits at a station for fifteen minutes for ‘signal issues,’ I seriously regret my decision.
Another five minutes go by with no sign of movement, so I finally decide to cut my losses and get a rideshare. The moment I reach the stairs, the train driver announces that they’ve fixed the issue and the doors slide shut.
Fuck. Whatever.
I’m halfway up the stairs—I have no idea where the elevator is at this station—and I’m already sweating, but I lug the suitcase up the last few steps and summon my ride.
It’s a busy corner, and my driver circles the block three times before they figure out the correct turn and pick me up.
I’m a half hour behind where I wanted to be. My leg bounces the entire car ride, and the anxiety is like bugs crawling under my skin.
I jump out of the car and run to check-in. It’s fifty minutes until my flight time—the baggage cutoff is forty-five. There’s a line. Fuck.
I consider cutting it, but I see a staff member checking boarding passes. He glances at mine, gives a nod, and points me into the VIP line, which is currently empty. Must have seen the time for my flight, and I murmur profuse thanks as I scurry up to check in.
I stare at the clock all the way through the security line, and I get out the other side with twenty minutes to go. I could really use some caffeine, but I don’t dare risk a detour until I find my gate.
The hallway towards my gate just keeps going and going and going. I power-walk, knowing I’ll get in trouble for running, but fuck am I cutting it close.
I pull up to my gate and it’s already mostly empty, but I breathe a sigh of relief to see there’s still one person left in line. I step up behind them, and my blood pressure drops twenty points as the boarding pass scanner dings approval and I step onto the jet bridge.
That weird, distinctive jet bridge smell hits me, and it finally feels real. I’m about to spend a month jet-setting across the world.
“What seat?” the flight attendant asks as I step aboard.
“Oh, uh…” I fumble for my boarding pass. “Five A.” They must have started numbering things from the back or something, and I’m not looking forward to having to step over everyone to get into my seat, but that’s what I get for being late.
“On the right,” the attendant says, and I start up the aisle, stepping past first class and raising a hand to push aside the curtain to economy class.
“Oh, too far,” the attendant calls sweetly from behind me.
I turn and blink. She points to the last first-class seat on the right.
“I’m sure it’s not that,” I mutter, double-checking my boarding pass.
She steps up, and I tilt the pass towards her. She nods, a bit amused. “Yep, five A. This one.”
I’m only going to hold things up trying to clarify, and the seat is clearly empty, so I stammer thanks and put my backpack in the bin, then slide into the seat.
It’s a whole recliner, with a thirteen-inch TV and a clear view out of the window.
I guess first class doesn’t have to pick between window and aisle.
I’m bewildered, still expecting someone else to step onto the plane or emerge from the bathroom and inform me that I’m in their seat.
It’s not until the plane is sealed, the flight attendant has checked my seat belt, and we’re taxiing onto the runway that I accept it.
Ticket upgrades sometimes happen if they overbook a flight, right?
I snap a selfie and send it to Mom with the message, first class, baby! Before switching to airplane mode.
The other people in first class are typing away on laptops and smartphones, or scrawling in notebooks, vaguely disinterested in their surroundings.
The air is already dry on the plane, and I remember what I forgot—my water bottle. Shit.
But there’s a bottle waiting in the cupholder. I figure I’ll have to pay for it at the end of the flight and it’s going to be super overpriced, but I’ll refill it and make it worthwhile.
Leaning against the window, I stare out as we take off.
The first few moments of flight always feel strange, when the airport structures seem eerily close.
Soon, the plane banks out over the city, which now appears like a charming model town.
Spring is in full swing with no trace of the winter’s snow left, trees once again a bright emerald, bushes plump with flowers, sunlight bringing out all the golds and reds in the city’s historic districts.
The harbor glitters brilliant blue like liquid sky, and then the coast shrinks to a tan streak as we make our way out over the Atlantic.
I put on a podcast and keep staring out the window for the next few hours. The ocean ripples with infinite shades of blue until sunset takes it through a violent scarlet then down into dusky purple. I take a thousand pictures to send to Mom later.
The sky has become deep, inky black when a savory aroma tickles my nose, and I slip my headphones out.
There’s no food cart in first class. The flight attendant from before walks out with full plates of food, and as she drops it off for the person in front of me, she asks, “Chicken, veggie, or beef?”
“Chicken,” I say, mostly because it was the first option and I’ve already forgotten the other two.
“Anything to drink? Wine? Cocktail?”
“Uh—no, that’s fine.” I’m stretching out my water bottle, trying to avoid buying a second, but I’ll be alright.
“It’s complimentary,” she says, a twinkle in her eye. She has fully clocked that I do not belong in first class, and I’m so grateful for it.
“Oh, um… White wine?”
“You’ve got it, sweetheart.”
She brings me the chicken, a mini bottle of wine, and a plastic cup with a stem. It’s almost too cute to open, but I’m thirsty, and it really goes perfectly with the chicken.
This might be the best chicken I’ve had in my entire life. Maybe it’s the thin air or the wine getting to me, but it’s juicy and herbal and definitely not the same as economy-class food.
After dinner, I accept an herbal tea and a cookie—also complimentary. I’m pretty sure economy is charging for pretzels these days.
I’m getting tired, and the cabin lights are dimmed, and the attendant brings around blankets and pillows. I ask for an extra pillow, enjoying a thrill of naughtiness. The flight attendant is happy to oblige.
My chair reclines all the way flat, and it’s so nice to stretch my legs out. I’m not tall—five foot six—so I know I don’t have that much to complain about with coach seating, but still, this is a million times better.
I snuggle in with my blankets, pillows, and a movie. Before I know it, I’m asleep.
Hours later, the cabin lights brighten. Excitement combats my jet lag, and even though it’s six am back home and I’m distinctly not a morning person, I’m soon wide awake.
Outside the window, the azure Atlantic washes along the coast of Ireland as I accept a glass of champagne and turn to appreciate the view.
The houses look like they belong in a little train model, cute and small and colorful. The plane shudders as we approach the runway, and there’s a little lurch as we touch down, but it’s overall a smooth landing.
I turn off airplane mode and send Mom a million pictures, then open the email that Morgan’s assistant, Eileen, sent me. I was so focused on getting this far that I actually have no idea what’s next.
Thankfully, I won’t have to order another rideshare—the email says a driver will be waiting for me. My suitcase comes out first at baggage claim, instantly identifiable with its pop of vintage floral color.
I head past the row of drivers waiting, and sure enough, there’s a sign that says Brennan.
The car is black with leather seats, spacious and lightly scented. There are four more water bottles waiting in the center console, several wet wipes, a stain remover pen, a disposable toothbrush, and a cup of mints. If the pattern holds, they’re all complimentary.
It finally dawns on me that my first class ticket wasn’t a coincidence at all.
I shake my head as I look out the window, watching Dublin roll by.
It’s funny—rich people don’t have to remember mundane things like water bottles.
You pay a massive premium to get things for free.
In this case, Artemis is paying the premium.
And it’s really, really not necessary. I suddenly wonder how much this car ride is costing, even though I’m grateful for it.
But just like the overly fancy catering, the money’s already spent.
Maybe I’ll email Morgan’s assistant and let her know that it was really fun, but economy’s fine from here on out.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting the hotel to be like, but it’s definitely not… this.
Every surface is made of marble, with seating areas of dark leather couches and rich red velvet rugs. Gleaming brass chandeliers hover in spheres of glass, accented by more clusters of spheres like bubbles. It’s futuristic and classic all at once.
The man at the front desk is polite and professional with a light accent, and he gives me my room key and directions.
“You can set your bag there, and it will be up shortly,” he says.
I freeze like a deer in the headlights. “Am I… allowed to take it up myself?”
The man’s eyes twinkle like he’s holding back a laugh, but he says, “Of course. Whatever you prefer.”
“C-cool, thank you.”