My Grumpy Billionaire

Chapter Thirty-Four

Sierra

Even though it’s late, LAX is packed. But then, the airport is always congested. Lines snake down the departure lobby. I sigh, wondering if we have enough time to check in and clear security.

“What time is our flight?” I ask.

“Eleven fifty-five.”

“We have three hours.” I glance at the lines for the security. They’re even longer than those at the airline counters. “Which airline?”

He points at a dark blue and white logo three yards ahead. I trot to the line and stand at the end. There are at least a hundred people ahead of us.

“Wrong line,” he says. “We’re not flying economy.”

I follow him past the shorter lines for business-class passengers and straight to the counter for first class. I’ve never flown first class, not even for my honeymoon. Todd wanted to, saying that it was the least he deserved—and with every expectation that I pay for the entire honeymoon—but Heather booked us into business. Given how much she hates him, she probably wanted to buy economy tickets, except in that case I would’ve suffered too.

So first class is a shock. I know how much professors make, and these seats cost a lung. Economy would have been fine, actually, especially since he must’ve bought the tickets in the last week or two. I hope he hasn’t overstretched himself.

He strides toward the uniformed ground crew like he owns the airline.

“Did you get an upgrade?” I ask, walking quickly to keep up.

“No,” he says. “Why?”

“It’s just so…extravagant.”

He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

Maybe he has lots of frequent flier miles he can redeem for free tickets.

The superbly efficient ground crew checks us in. Another crew member—a willowy Japanese lady with a polite but warm smile—comes out and escorts us, holding our passports and tickets.

Griffin follows her like this is normal. I bring up the rear, marveling at what first class can get us. I’ve never had anybody escort me through an airport. I feel like royalty, and I’m excited and grateful that Griffin’s giving me this experience.

She takes us through a special lane, bypassing the lengthy, serpentine lines that everyone else is standing in. Even the TSA agents are nicer, like they know we’re important.

Then she escorts us to a gorgeous lounge across from a huge window facing the runway. Polished pale gold and cream marble and tiles spread out. The walls are covered in faux dark wood, and the air smells like sandalwood and lemongrass. One of the three uniformed women seated at the counter stands at our approach. “Welcome,” she says.

Our guide hands her our passports and boarding passes to scan them into the system. She turns to us. “This is the first-class lounge. You can relax here until it’s time to board at eleven thirty.”

“I’m sorry, when, exactly?” Griffin said the plane was taking off at eleven fifty-five.

“Eleven thirty. The doors will close at eleven fifty. If that is all…?”

“Yes, thank you,” Griffin says.

She smiles, then leaves.

“We aren’t flying on a prop plane, are we?” I ask, watching her walking away.

“Across the Pacific?” Griffin seems to find the idea amusing. “No. It’s a Dreamliner. And yes, they can board in twenty minutes.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll make it to Tokyo safe and sound.”

The lady at the counter gives our boarding passes and passports back to us. Another staff member comes out and leads us to an empty table that overlooks the tarmac. We can see a huge Boeing jet out the window.