Page 7 of Beauty Beneath the Sorrow
I’ve never been good at the emotional side of relationships. I feel things deeply, including love—and anger. Not all women can accept that intensity, so I’ve learned to keep them at a distance—along with my emotions.
God help the woman I genuinely fall in love with. That’s why I date casually. Maintaining long-distance relationships is easier because they all eventually run their course, letting me off the hook.
“Let us work on that, and we’ll get back to you. Have a safe flight,” Ashley calls out. They’re both still fumbling with all their things in their hands when I head toward the door to thebuilding. I wave at them from behind.
A short time later, I’m walking through the terminal. The first thing I do before a flight is grab another cup of coffee. I make a beeline for the crew lounge to pick up my favorite order. The airport buzzes with commuters flying out to begin their work week.
“Frank,” I greet one of the gentlemen I’ve gotten to know during his commuting flights. He lives in Scottsdale but works in the tech industry in San Francisco. He spends the week out there and weekends here with his wife and daughter. Since most of the flights I work on are domestic, I see many of the same commuters.
“Hello, Captain Hernandez. Going to San Francisco?” Frank extends his arm for me to shake his hand.
“Not this morning,” I reply. He steps aside to let me order.
Frank reaches for his paper cup on the other side of the counter. “Well, it’s nice to see you. Have a safe flight,” he says.
“You too, Frank. See you around.”
While waiting for my order, my eyes search the room. I might see her. And as luck would have it, my eyes find who I’m always looking for these days. Every bone in my body locks into place, and I’m immediately mesmerized as I watch a tall, honey-blonde flight attendant walk up to the counter.
Lina.
A friend of mine from the service retired a few years before me and became a commercial pilot. Although he works for a different airline, his daughter is a flight attendant for mine.
“Carter.”
Lina and I met a little less than a year ago, and I’m not ashamed to say it was an instant attraction. By this point in my life, I’ve been with women all over the world. Each one bringing out different emotions and levels of intimacy from me. Some were for fun, others companionship, but none lingered throughmy bones or caused an electrical surge to pulse through my limbs all at once.
Never.
Nothing compared to the sheer high I got the moment Lina’s baby blue eyes met mine.
An internal bomb ticked louder with every step in the brief three seconds it took her to approach me and my friend Brian. As she closed the distance between us, my breath became labored, and my thoughts blurred.
It was all over. I was caught off guard at first and tried to push the unfamiliar feelings aside, chalking them up to me being a horny man getting turned on by a sexy younger woman. But my lust was quickly halted.
The following words uttered by Brian created a dense fog that would continue to hang over me for the foreseeable future. It was like the lights instantly went out.
“Jag, this is my daughter Lina.”
Fuck.
But my body had already decided she was different before my heart or mind—and there would be no going back. The more I got to know Lina through simple conversations and casual encounters, the more suffocatingly thick tension continued to surround us. And I grew to become terribly infatuated with her.
It’s been ten months and sixteen days since I first laid eyes on her. Since then, we’ve been on the same flight crew several times. Each time my thoughts flood with inappropriate things, I feel a sting of guilt. There’s only a thirteen-year difference between us, but somehow, the way my body reacts to being around her still feels forbidden.
My heart beats faster the longer I stare at my best friend’s daughter, who doesn’t notice me because she’s absently texting on her phone. I let my gaze drink in the length of her, from her black high heels to her navy pencil skirt and up to her bright red lipstick.
Fuck.
“Carter!”
I hear my name as a distant sound until a pair of blue eyes lock with mine. A bolt of electricity shoots up my spine, forcing me back into reality.
I blink a few times, then bend to grab my cup. “Thank you.”
“Lina!” the barista shouts into my face. The clicking of her heels as she heads toward me drowns out the steam from the latte machine and the low chatter of passengers waiting for their flights.
“Carter.” The sweet way she says my name is alluring, making me never want to hear anyone else say it again.
