Up In The Air: In Flight Part 1

In Flight.

By R.K. Lilley.

CHAPTER ONE.

Mr. Cavendish.

My hands trembled slightly as I prepared my galley for the first cla.s.s, pre-board service. My whole body hummed nervously as I pulled a chilled bottle of champagne from the large drawer of ice at the bottom of my liquor cart. I felt more than heard my best friend, Stephan, sweep into the curtained galley behind me.

"Showtime, Bee," he said briskly.

I felt him tucking errant blond hairs back into my sleek chignon. In spite of his fussing, I knew it was smooth. Since we were departing from our hometown of Las Vegas, we had taken a shuttle from our airline's headquarters directly to the plane. This meant that we got to bypa.s.s security completely. No metal detectors meant bobby pins. And bobby pins meant that my smooth, pale blond hair would behave itself perfectly.

But Stephan liked to fuss over me. He was by far the most affectionate person I knew. And certainly the only one I would permit to touch me, even in a casual manner.

He had earned those rights with me over many years of being my best friend. Best friend and so much more. Constant companion, confidante, partner, former roommate, and currently, my neighbor. He was also my inflight buddy-bid partner. We were completely inseparable.

There were times when it felt like he was more of an extension of me than an actual separate person. We were that close. Yes, we were codependent, there was no question, but we'd been partners for too many years to operate any other way.

There was no question that he was the most important person in my life. When I heard the word family, I thought of only one person, and that person was Stephan.

"We already have five seated in first cla.s.s. Where's my manifest?" he asked I handed it to him without a word. I'd had the pa.s.senger list tucked into my leather menu sleeve. I had already glanced at it. It was the reason that my hands weren't quite steady. There was no other reason for me to be so nervous. I was preparing for a nearly empty redeye flight, with only a minimal service. The only challenge on this flight was normally to stay awake.

"You've got to get a look at 2D," Stephan was saying with an exaggerated, dreamy sigh. His statement, and that dreamy sigh, were both very un-Stephan like, but I knew well the reason for the change in him. That reason had elicited some very uncharacteristic responses from me, as well.

"Yes, that's Mr. Cavendish," I said in a steady voice.

Big, elegant hands smoothed over the shoulders of my fitted, charcoal-gray suit vest. "You sound like you know him." There was a question in his voice.

"Mmm hmm." I tried my best for casual. "He was on that charter flight I had to work without you last week. He was meeting with the CEO. Mr. Cavendish is that bigwig hotel owner."

Stephan snapped his fingers behind me. I finally turned to look at him, raising a brow.

The clear blue eyes that met my own could have belonged to my brother, if I'd had one. In fact, you could say that about the two of us in general. Our golden blond hair was nearly the same shade, though his had a wavy texture. His was brushed back artfully and hung just past his ears. We were both tall and lean, though he had me beat by several inches. Even my heels didn't make up the difference. Also, our features had a similar, nordic cast. Yes, we could have easily pa.s.sed for siblings. And I certainly thought of him as a brother. I had for close to a decade now.

"I've heard of him! That dude is a billionaire! Melissa will go into heat when she finds out. We're gonna see her backing, a.s.s first, into first cla.s.s, as soon as she realizes who we've got up here!"

I tried to smother a laugh at the visual he'd painted. And, sadly, he probably wasn't all that far off the mark.

Melissa was one of the three flight attendants working in the main cabin of the 757. We had just started our new schedule with a new main cabin crew. Stephan and I always worked together in first cla.s.s, we bid it that way, but our main cabin crew changed every few months. Our current bid was scheduled to last three months, and we were just getting to know our other flying mates. We were all getting along fine, so far.

Melissa was the loudest personality of the bunch, and so, for better or worse, we were learning all about her first. She was one of those girls who had become a flight attendant to meet men. Or more specifically, to meet rich men. She was new to the airline, so she was stuck working in coach. Or, as she said, slumming it. She coveted my position of first cla.s.s flight attendant, or even Stephan's position of Lead flight attendant.

Stephan and I had started at our small company four years ago, in the very first flight attendant cla.s.s, and so had years of seniority over her. Melissa had started as an inflight maybe six months ago, which meant she wouldn't even be able to apply for a first cla.s.s position for another six months. And after that she wouldn't be able to hold a line in first cla.s.s for another six months.

Instead, she would be on call, with a totally chaotic schedule that wouldn't allow for any planned destinations. And when she did get a steady line, it would be the worst line available, with short overnight trips in hotels right by the airport. From what I'd gathered from the fortune-hunters I'd worked with over the years, none of those things were conducive to planning a.s.signations with rich men.

Melissa had been beyond lucky to get on our line for the next three months. It was a coveted line, with regular weekly overnights in New York. We would stay in our best crew hotel, which was less than two blocks from Central Park. It was a senior line, and we'd all been surprised to get such a junior member on our crew. But she still complained, often pointing out that she was just made for first cla.s.s. Her constant complaints were already starting to wear on the crew.

Stephan gave my shoulder a rea.s.suring squeeze before heading into the flight deck to have a briefing with the pilots. This was the main reason that Stephan took the position of lead while I took the first cla.s.s galley position. I hated dealing with pilots. Stephan handled them beautifully, often playing my boyfriend when they acted even slightly interested in me on a personal level. Half of the people we worked with thought we were an item. Stephan wasn't out openly. It was a personal choice he'd made a long time ago, and one I understood completely. He'd had a rough time of it when he came out to his parents about being gay, and just felt safer keeping his preferences to himself.

I popped the cork off of the champagne bottle quickly and quietly, filling five gla.s.ses with practiced ease. I took slow, deep breaths to manage my nerves. I was used to managing a certain amount of anxiety. I tended to be an anxious person, though I hid it well. I just wasn't used to this type of nervous tension, or this much of it. And the cause of it today was, well, out of character for me, to say the least.

I swept from the galley with a burst of forced confidence. If I could keep a full drink tray steady at thirty-five thousand feet, in three and a half inch heels and turbulence on a regular basis, I could certainly serve a few drinks on steady ground.

I was doing just fine, my tray-laden arm steady, my feet sure, right up until I looked up from the ground and into the vibrant turquoise eyes of Mr. Cavendish.

As seemed to be his habit in our very brief acquaintance, he was watching me intently. His lean, elegant figure was lounging in the cream leather seat with a casual boredom that his eyes lacked. Was it his intent stare that unnerved me so badly? Probably. That intent gaze seemed to hold me strangely captivated. It could also have something to do with the fact that he was hands-down the most attractive person I'd ever seen. And I saw a lot. I'd served all types. From soaps stars, to movie stars, to all types of models. h.e.l.l, even Stephan was undoubtedly model material. But this man was quite simply the most stunning person I'd laid eyes on in my twenty-three years.

It was not one feature in particular that made him stand out so starkly, though all of his seemed flawless. Perhaps it was his deep golden complexion, combined with his sandy brown hair, which hung straight, just hitting the collar of his crisp white dress shirt. It was that light brown color that sat somewhere between blonde and brown, choosing neither, but somehow hit a shade that was lovelier than both. And his deep tan belonged on a surfer, or at least someone with dark hair and eyes. But his eyes weren't dark. They were a bright turquoise and stood out starkly with his unusual coloring. And they were so d.a.m.n piercing...I felt as though he knew things about me with just a look, things he couldn't possibly know.

As I stared at him, frozen in place, he smiled at me, his expression almost affectionate. His mouth looked so soft, pretty even, framing his straight white teeth. Even his nose was perfect, straight and appealing. He was just so stunningly good-looking. The thought struck me, not for the first time, how unfair it was for one man to be that devastatingly handsome and also a billionaire still in his twenties. Anyone born so privileged was surely an awful person. He'd probably never suffered a day in his life. He'd probably had everything handed to him so easily that he was already arrogant and dissolute, bored with things that the rest of us strived for. There was no outward sign of that, but how could I see past his stunning outward appearance when I was so easily distracted by the beauty of it?

I quickly snapped myself out of that line of thought. I was being unfair, I knew. I knew nothing about this man and I certainly couldn't judge his character poorly based on what I'd observed so far. I hadn't realized how bitter my att.i.tude had become towards those born to privilege. My own upbringing had been stark and brutal, and I had personally experienced a profound level of poverty, but I couldn't let that be an excuse to pa.s.s harsh judgement on someone who had been nothing but polite to me. I had to keep telling myself that, but being hopelessly attracted to him wasn't helping. That unwilling attraction made me instinctively want to lash out.

I swallowed, trying to wet my suddenly dry throat. "h.e.l.lo again, Mr. Cavendish." I tried to nod at him politely, but as I did so, my drink tray wobbled precariously.

Mr. Cavendish moved unbelievably fast, half-standing to steady my tray over the seat between us. I watched in abject horror as a splash of champagne made it onto the sleeve of his dark gray suit jacket. That suit undoubtedly cost more than I made in a month.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Cavendish." My voice was breathless and soft, which further fl.u.s.tered me.

He ran his free hand restlessly through his straight, sandy hair. The silky strands seemed to stay artfully out of his face. It was supermodel hair. d.a.m.n him.

"Don't be sorry, Bianca," he admonished me in a velvety deep voice. Even his voice was unfair. I reeled at the knowledge that he'd remembered my name.

He steadied my arm gallantly, and eventually released my tray when I told him I had it under control.

He turned down my offer of a gla.s.s of champagne. I belatedly recalled that he didn't touch any kind of alcohol.

"Just some water, when you get a chance," he told me with a warm smile.

I finished my champagne pre-board service. I still had only five pa.s.sengers, so it took me no time at all.

I set my tray on the counter in the galley and went back through to collect jackets and take orders for the inflight service.

As I approached Mr. Cavendish again, he looked up intently from his phone, and my heartbeat went into overdrive as our gazes met again. "Can I take your jacket, Mr. Cavendish?" I asked him, my voice still strangely breathless. "I could try to get that champagne out, or just hang it up, if you like."

He stood, having to step into the aisle to do so completely. He was suddenly so close to me that I gasped. I was mortified at my reaction to him. I prided myself on my professionalism. And my reaction to his close proximity was most definitely not professional.

I was tall, nearly five foot ten barefoot, and easily six one now in my work shoes. But the top of my head still only came up to his nose. He was at least Stephan's height, maybe an inch taller. I always felt a little awkward around shorter men, but this height, this extremely tall man, had the opposite effect. He made me feel feminine and small. I enjoyed the feeling, but was extremely unnerved by it.

He shrugged out of his finely tailored suit jacket, handing it to me. He remained in a fine white dress shirt with a pale blue tie. I saw that, although he was lean and elegant, he was also surprisingly muscular. The sight of that hard play of muscles under his shirt made my mouth go dry.

"Just hang it, please, Bianca," he told me softly.

"Yes, Sir," I murmured in a voice I scarcely recognized.

I finished my usual pre-board service in a bit of a daze, barely locking down all of the carts in my galley before it was time to step again in front of Mr. Cavendish for the safety demonstration.

He watched me intently, his gaze never leaving my face. I didn't understand his interest. Never once had his gaze left my face. I sensed that he was interested in me. But in what way? I had no idea. Usually when men hit on me, their eyes were all over my body, not unswervingly glued to my eyes.

My demonstration was unusually graceless. I even fumbled with the seat buckle in my nervousness. I took my seat for takeoff with a sense of relief. I needed a moment of peace to gather my composure. But it wasn't meant to be. My jump seat faced Mr. Cavendish almost perfectly. I had to make a conscious effort not to meet his eyes during the long taxi and then takeoff.

CHAPTER TWO.

Mr. Generous.

Stephan clutched my hand warmly as we took off. We both loved the feeling of takeoff. It represented good things for both of us. New places. New adventures. Leaving bad things behind us. I sent him a quick, affectionate smile before I looked out the window in the door to my right, avoiding looking at Mr. Cavendish for as long as I could.

Finally, I stole a furtive glance at him, and was baffled by the change I saw in him. He was still as a statue now, his eyes positively glacial. I followed his gaze to where my hand lay linked with Stephan's on the small s.p.a.ce between our jump seats. It occurred to me that it must look as though we were a couple. Stephan and I often appeared that way, even encouraged it at times. All but our close friends and Stephan's lovers thought we were an item. But it made me uncomfortable that Mr. Cavendish might make that a.s.sumption. Even so, it couldn't account for his suddenly hostile demeanor. I barely knew the man.

We quickly reached ten thousand feet. At the double ding that indicated our alt.i.tude, I got up and quickly started preparing a hot towel service while Stephan made his usual announcements. He leaned in close against my back, nearly embracing me as he spoke in my ear. "Mind if I go help the main cabin?" he asked me. "They have a full house."

I sent him a puzzled glance. "I'll do it after the hot towels. It's my turn, remember?"

It was our usual routine to help out in back when the first cla.s.s cabin was light and the main cabin was at capacity. We certainly didn't need two people to serve five pa.s.sengers that were all probably about to pa.s.s out. But he had helped in coach last time, so we both knew it was my turn to help in back.

He just kissed the top of my head, shaking his. "I need to talk to Jake about that incident report from last week, and he's got the front cart, so we can chat while we work. Good luck up here." And with that, he disappeared. I sighed, exasperated. For once, I actually wanted to work back there. It would give me a little break from Mr. Beautiful up front. But I certainly wasn't going to put up a fuss about it, so I would just have to deal.

Mr. Cavendish barely glanced at me now as I handed out hot towels, then collected them. Why did that bother me so much? I didn't want to delve too deeply into the thought.

I took drink orders, and served the first round of drinks quickly. The couple on the last row of first cla.s.s seemed to be heavy drinkers, but the others just had water and looked close to falling asleep. I'd be surprised if most of them weren't asleep before I'd even finished my short service.

I took a cart out, offering cheese, crackers, and an olive basil dip. It took me less than five minutes to serve the entire cabin. Mr. Cavendish took a small plate of cheese with water, and the couple in back took some, but the other two declined and were sleeping before I was even back in the galley.

As I collected the plates, I was surprised to find that even the couple who'd been drinking c.o.c.ktails had fallen asleep. I had read them all wrong. They were the 'drink a few and fall asleep couple'. I had thought for sure they were just getting started.

Mr. Cavendish was suddenly the only pa.s.senger awake in my cabin. It felt strangely as though we were alone. The curtain was closed securely on main cabin, and the lights were dimmed to near darkness throughout the entire plane.

He was working quietly on his laptop, looking alert and nowhere close to sleep. Would he work straight through the night? I wondered. I couldn't imagine him getting to New York and taking a nap. He likely worked around the clock. Our flight time was four hours and forty-three minutes, and it was now the middle of the night. Something urgent must be keeping him up if he couldn't even take a small nap on the flight.

I approached him, leaning down to speak to him quietly, conscious of the other sleeping pa.s.sengers, though they were all at the back of first cla.s.s, and he was nearly at the front. "Can I get you anything else, Sir?"

For the first time since we'd taken off, he gave me his full attention. "May I ask you something, Bianca?" he asked me in a carefully bland tone.

I raised my brows in question. "Yes, Sir. What can I help you with?"

He sighed, indicating the empty seat next to his. "Can you sit for a minute to talk?"

I glanced around nervously, not knowing what to make of his request. It seemed unprofessional to sit down next to him, but he had asked, and he was the only one likely to see me do it.

"Sit, Bianca. Everyone else is beyond caring." I loved the way he said my name. Loved it and was disconcerted by it. It was nothing I could put my finger on, but something about his tone made it sound almost intimate.

I took a deep breath and finally just sat down beside him. I angled toward him slightly, my hands in my lap, tugging my skirt down and smoothing the dark gray material nervously.

"Are you and Stephan together?" he asked frankly, when I finally looked up at him. I just blinked for a moment, stunned. I hadn't expected his interest, let alone this kind of bluntness. I guessed that men so busy they couldn't even take a nap on a plane weren't the type to beat around the bush.

"No, Sir," I answered, before I could really think it through. "We're best friends, but it's platonic." Why am I telling him this? I asked myself, even as the words left my mouth.

I watched with an avid fascination as one of his elegant hands reached towards mine, long fingers circling my left wrist lightly. I looked back at his face, and he was smiling now. My chest was rising and falling so heavily that I caught the motion at the edge of my vision. My chest was ample, too much so, making me look disproportionate to my own critical eye. And suddenly, I was all too conscious of my heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, rising and falling conspicuously. My nipples were tightening up in a pleasurable way as my breath caught.

As though he read my mind, his gaze traveled down to my chest for the first time that I'd noticed. Some men only looked at or spoke to my chest, and up until now he'd done the opposite of that, which I had found refreshing.

He reached a hand to the thin, mock men's tie that lay between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, running a light finger along it. He made a deep humming noise in his throat, then pulled his hand quickly back.

He cleared his throat softly. "Are you seeing anyone?" he asked, finally looking back into my eyes.

I bit my lip and shook my head. His gaze went to my mouth at the motion. He watched me with a singleminded focus that I couldn't seem to look away from.

"Good," he said. Is this really happening? I thought, dazed. "I a.s.sume you're taking a nap when you get to your hotel. What time will you be waking up?"

Lord, he was direct. Unusually so. It seemed to be swaying me from my normal ways. I was used to gently turning men down before they could directly ask me out. The tactic had always served me well. It saved me awkwardness, and saved their pride. I couldn't seem to use it on Mr. Cavendish, though. When he asked me a question, I felt almost compelled to answer it truthfully.

"I usually sleep for about four hours, so I can still get to sleep at night. We have an early flight to Las Vegas on Sat.u.r.day morning. If I slept any longer than that, I'd be up all night."

He did quick calculations in his head, then asked. "So noon?"

I nodded, wondering why I wasn't yet explaining that I wouldn't go out with him. Or do any of the things that he obviously had on his mind...

"I'll send a car to pick you up for lunch," he told me. So he wasn't going to ask me out. He was apparently going to order me out. Why was I having such a hard time getting the words out to tell him no? "You and I need to talk," he continued. "I have a proposition for you."

The word proposition, which to my ear had a seedy ring to it, finally brought me back to myself. I shook my head finally, galvanized back into my normal behavior. "No, Mr. Cavendish. I'm flattered that you're...interested in me in some way. But I'll have to politely decline. I don't date."

He blinked at me, clearly taken aback. He was silent for a moment before he tried another tact. "I don't date, either, actually. That was not exactly what I had in mind."

This is good, I told myself around my bruised ego. Of course he wouldn't want to date you. He probably only dated useless socialites who had never had to work a day in their lives. I wanted him to continue with his explanation now, sure it would kill every ounce of the unwilling interest I felt for him.

"Then what did you have in mind?" I asked him, my voice colder now.

His gaze was hot suddenly, his finger running again along my thin tie. I had to check the impulse to look down and make sure my hardening nipples weren't outlined through my shirt and vest. "I think you and I are very compatible. In fact, I'm sure of it. Come to lunch with me today and I'll show you. If you still aren't interested, I will, of course, leave you alone. But I promise I can make you interested. I'll treat you very well, Bianca. I'm a very generous man-"

I held up my free hand. I was so done with the conversation. I felt slightly ill, but more aroused, and the combination was troubling to me. "Please, no more," I told him stiffly. "I'm not interested in any of that, believe me. I don't know what impression you think I've given you, but I'm not some kind of fortune-hunter. I don't want your generosity. I don't want anything at all from you. We have a girl that works in back who seems more your style. I'll send her your way if your'e so hard up that you're offering random women money. Or whatever the the h.e.l.l it is you were suggesting. But I can tell you for sure that I am not the kind of girl that you're looking for."

I tried to stand, but he didn't release my wrist. I sat back in the seat, glaring at the hand that held me captive. "That's not what I meant at all, Bianca. I didn't mean to sound so...indelicate. But I am very, very attracted to you, and I would very much like to do something about it." He smiled at me with a mixture of charm and heat that was very nearly irresistible. "Have lunch with me, where we can discuss this at length, and with some privacy." He released my wrist as he finished speaking.

"No, thank you, Mr. Cavendish." I got up quietly and walked back into the galley, closing the curtain behind me calmly.