12 Inches (Size Matters 1)

CJ is walking toward the door, but I stop her. "Wait."

She turns to me and I continue. "It's just a meeting, right?"

"I promise. Nothing's set in stone."

"Fine. Schedule it, and I'll be there, but I still think you're fucking crazy."

"I think you're making the right choice," CJ smiles. "I'll set up the day and time and put it on your calendar."

"Who is this author anyways?" I ask. I realize that I haven't even asked what's arguably the most important fucking question.

"Don't worry," CJ replies, grabbing her bag and walking to the door. She puts one hand on the handle and looks back at me. "I'll work it out and find out who this is."

Without another word, she closes the door behind her.

Just fucking great.

We don't even know who this author is and I've already agreed to a meeting. So much for running a Google search on this mystery person.

This should be interesting.

4

Abby

“Can I buy you a drink?” the tall man asks me, his pilot cap tucked under his arm. I freeze in place, suitcase handle in one hand and my passport in the other. I take one quick look at my watch, and then back to the handsome pilot. The flight arrived earlier than expected, so I probably still have some time before Cheryl gets here.

And a drink doesn’t sound so bad right now. After spending almost five hours inside of a plane, I guess anything sounds perfect, especially if it’s a drink with a man like this.

His navy blue suit gives him an elegant look, and the combination of golden stripes lacing the wrists of his jacket adds a complimentary touch. The wings over his breast pocket spell out what he does for a living and, even though it shouldn’t matter, it does. There’s something about pilots, especially when they’re wearing a uniform, isn’t there?

I mean, seriously, I’m not alone, am I? You like uniforms too, right?

“One drink,” I tell him with a smile, and he closes the distance between the two of us and grabs the handle of my suitcase.

“I’ll take this, then,” he replies softly, propping up his blue cap on the top of his head. I trail after him like a lost pup, blessing the Gods for his company; I guess that accompanying a pilot gives you some leeway when it comes to cutting in line.

He guides me through the sprawling airport corridors until we finally get to the first class lounge. I’ve only been here a few times, but it's always worth the extra money. I’m one of those people who hates wasting time at airports (well, who doesn’t, really?) and I always appreciate the extra comfort first-class gives me. Especially if it means I get to fire up my laptop and bang out another chapter. Yeah, no such thing as downtime for us writers—every hour is writing hour.

Still, now is one of these rare times when my mind isn’t in writing mode. No, right now my brain is busy appraising the man walking by my side. I steal a glance at his nametag (Andrew Delavan), and then take the time to look up and down his body. He has a pronounced chin, the hard lines of his jaw making him look as if he just stepped out from a movie; and he’s at least a foot taller than me.

If something happens with Mr. Pilot, I’ll be sure to write about it in my next newsletter. I always like to keep my fans in the loop, you know? I grew up as a private person, but that went out the window the moment I had my first bestseller. It’s amazing what a globe girdling online e-bookstore like Rainforest.com will do to you.

I spent these past two weeks lazing around in Honolulu (which means I spent half the time trying to drown myself in Mai Tais to numb the pain), and I’ve already uploaded a lot of the pictures to my group on Facebook, Dirty Lil’ Angels. Technology is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? God bless my fans, if it weren’t for them I might've gone insane after losing my boyfriend, dignity, and publishing deal all in the same day. Too bad that, aside from my fans, nobody seems to be buying my books.

But I guess it’s time I move on, right? The world doesn’t stop spinning just because you feel like a deflated tire. And I’m thinking that maybe Mr. Andrew ‘Handsome Pilot’ Delavan might just help inflate my tire. Okay, that was a terrible pun, I know.

We go through the glass and marble entryway to the lounge, make a beeline straight to the bar and sit down on the high stools.

“A cosmo, please,” I ask the bartender, and Andrew just gets a fresh lime soda. I figure he can’t get behind the yoke of a plane with even a slight buzz, which kinda makes me feel better about the idea of being thousands of feet up in the air inside of a bullet with wings.

We talk about the usual niceties—where are you from? What do you do? And he ends up telling me that he was the pilot o

n my flight from Hawaii to Los Angeles. He had my life in his hands, and I’m still breathing, so I guess I have to thank him for that.

It doesn’t take long for him to place his hand on top of mine, and next thing I know he’s telling me about this place we can go to get some privacy. I check my watch again and, even though Cheryl’s probably already wondering about my whereabouts, I figure I need to do this. My mental sanity is at stake here, Cheryl, be nice.

I follow him through a service only entrance, and he leads me to a small private lounge used only by the air crew. We get inside a private locker room and, as soon as he locks the door behind us, it’s on.