Page 6 of Mile High Coach

There is no way I’m going to look for him in first class.

The smile he flashed me outside the gate, as he went to board, was flirty, but also direct. An invitation to come to his seat. The promise of what might happen if I did.

Even the thought of it makes a jolt run the length of me, down into my stomach where it contributes to the butterflies on crack. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m starting a new job, or maybe it’s the news from the clinic, but I don’t feel like myself.

Dysregulated, as Chrys would say.

Shifting in my seat, I resolve to push this feeling as far down as I can get it, and ignore it until the flight lands in Baltimore and I can forget all about that man, his smile, the smell of that coconut sunscreen.

The fact that he’s flying first class says that he’s probably been routed through here from somewhere much more exciting than Maine. I think of the way his eyes flicked to my lips, then back to my eyes. I had thought for sure that he might kiss me right there at the gate.

Now, clearing my throat, I take out my tablet and settle it in my lap, trying to ignore the man-spreading of the passenger next to me. I’ll just work until we get to Baltimore, even ifgetting some sleep would be a better idea. It’s late now—nearing midnight—and by the time I disembark at the airport, there will be just enough time for a shower before my first meeting of the day with the Blue Crabs.

“Here’s John Canton across the line, the third line to start the game for Baltimore. We have Canton, working hard, trying to win his first Stanley Cup. And—a penalty here for the Fire—two minute minor—this could be pivotal for the Blue Crabs, if they can take advantage of the power play here?—”

I only manage to watch two minutes of the game before the plane pitches, and a chorus of dings sounds, instructing us to put our seat belts on. Anxiety shoots to the bottom of my throat, and I think about what Dr. Cohen said.Chemically, your body responds to stress hormones negatively, which can degrade the quality of your eggs.

Just the perfect thing to think about to try to keep my stress low. Taking a deep breath, I reach down and feel for my belt, making sure it’s still pulled snug across my lap. Passengers around me don’t even seem to notice the turbulence, but my stomach flips when the plan jumps again, and I grip the armrests.

Thirty more minutes pass like that, with me clenching my jaw and telling myself to remain calm, that it would be silly to react to this turbulence. Professionals decide when it’s safe to fly—people who know more than me.

And yet, the moment the seatbelt sign goes off, I’m getting shakily to my feet and walking toward the bathroom, just wanting to splash some water on my face, even knowing how disgusting airplane water really is.

I’m so focused on getting to the bathroom without tripping over my feet that I trip on something else.

“Oomph,” the obstacle says, and I smell coconut. The guy from the gate.

“Shit.” I push off of him, then realize he’s swaying backward and reach to grab him, only to realize he’s messing with me when my hands land on his very generous biceps. “Fuck, sorry?—”

“Didn’t realize you had such a dirty mouth on you,” he says, and when my eyes flick up to his, there’s a challenge there. A challenge that I shouldn’t want anything to do with.

I swallow. “Just trying to get to the bathroom before the turbulence starts again.”

“Really?” he raises an eyebrow, then jerks his head back in the direction he came. “It’s a lot smoother in first class. I’ve got an empty seat by me—what do you say?”

I know what I should say. I should say, that’s very nice of you to offer. I should say no thank you, I’ll go back to my own seat. Maybe I should even point out that there’s no way first class is actually smoother than coach.

Instead, my traitorous mouth opens, and I hear myself breathe, “Alright.”

Two minutes later, having gathered my things from my seat, I’m walking into first class, the attendant smiling at me, like she knew I was coming. Did he arrange this for me?

My heart skips double time. This isn’t like me—I should just go back to my assigned seat. Stick to the plan.

In fact, I’m just about to turn around and go back to coach, where I belong, when a door to my left slides open, and he’s sitting there, smiling up at me.

Oh God. His little pod has two seats right next to each other, only folding armrests keeping them apart. I know from some ill-advised searching during boarding—and from my reviewing of the airline policies before buying the ticket—that any intimate activity on a plane is strictly forbidden.

I know from scouring some threads online that not only is it disallowed by the rules, but it’s also logistically difficult.

But this—this is practically a bed. Surrounded by walls on all sides. It’s like they want people to break the rules in here.

Maybe Harrison sees all this pass through my head, because he shoots me another grin, leans back in his seat, and says, “Pretty nice, huh? Perks of being a loyal traveler.”

As I set my things down and look around the cabin, I swallow again, sinking into the seat and nearly sighing at the soft leather and the way it cups my body. I’ve been mostly thinking about money lately in the context of my dad’s hospital bills, so luxury like this hasn’t even crossed my mind.

“Yes,” I manage, realizing I never answered him. “It’s very nice. You don’t normally fly first class?”

He laughs, leans forward, pops the cork on a tiny bottle of champagne. “Way to call me out,” he jokes. “No—I’m usually in business class. But I guess they had to do a lot of shuffling today, with planes and with people, so we ended up on this one together.”

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