The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Look after her,” the security guard tells the ticket man, and he gives us both a wink and disappears through the crowd.

“Identification, please?” the man asks.

I scramble through my purse and dig out my passport and pass it over; he smiles as he looks at the photo. Oh man, that’s the worst photo in all of history. “Did you see me on Most Wanted?” I ask.

“Possibly. That photo: Is it even you?” He laughs.

I smile, embarrassed. “I hope not. I’m in trouble if it is.”

He types in my details. “Okay, so we have you flying to New York today with a . . .” He stops typing and reads.

“Uh-huh. Preferably not next to that man.”

“He won’t be going anywhere today,” he replies as he continues to type at a ridiculous speed. “Other than the lockup.”

“Why would you get drunk before coming to the airport?” I ask. “He hasn’t even been inside to the airport bars yet.”

“You would be surprised by what goes on around here,” he sighs.

I smile; this guy is nice.

He prints off my tickets. “I’ve upgraded you.”

“What?”

“First class, as an apology for him mishandling your bag.”

My eyes widen. “Oh, that’s not necessary . . . really,” I stammer.

He hands the tickets over and smiles broadly. “Enjoy your flight.”

“Thank you so much,” I gush.

He gives me a wink, and I could just reach over and hug him. But of course I won’t. I’ll pretend that cool things like this happen to me every day.

“Thanks again.” I smile.

“You have access to the VIP lounge, which is located on level one. Lunch and drinks are on the house in there. Have a safe flight.” With one last smile, he looks back to the line. “Next, please.”

I walk through the baggage checks with a huge goofy grin on my face.

First class—just what the doctor ordered.

Three hours later, I walk onto the plane like a rock star. I didn’t end up going into the VIP lounge because, well . . . I look like crap. My long dark hair is up in a high ponytail, and I’m wearing black leggings, a baggy pink sweater, and tennis shoes, but I did fix my makeup a little, so that’s something.

If I had known I was going to be upgraded, I would have at least tried to look the part and worn something swanky instead of looking like a homeless person. But anyway . . . who cares? It’s not like I’m going to see anyone I know.

I hand my ticket over to the flight attendant. “Just through the left aisle and to the right.”

“Thanks.” I look at my ticket and walk through the plane and see my number.

1B.

Damn it, I don’t have a window. I get to my seat, and a man sitting next to the window turns to me. Big blue eyes greet me, and he smiles. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I say.