“We are not going in that,” she said as she approached, a manrushing past her to get her luggage from her car.
“Sure are,” I told her, moving closer and settling a hand on her lower back, lightly guiding her toward the plane’s stairs. “You’ve never flown private before?”
“Nope,” she said, dramatically popping thepas she rounded the corner into the aisle bisecting the opulent cabin.
The entire thing was creamy, high-end fabrics and faux-wood accents. On a small table between two of the cushy armchair style seats rested a bottle of bubbly and two flutes on a shiny silver tray. The carpeted floor muffled Delia’s steps as she moved further into the space, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in.
“This is ridiculous,” she said.
I shrugged. “I’m not above flying commercial,” I said. “But with such a short turn around between getting the call from my manager and needing to be in NYC, this made more sense. Plus”—I moved to the bubbly and poured us each a glass, handing her one—“this is much more fun.”
“It’s definitely something,” she said, sipping the sparkling wine. Her eyes flew to mine. “This is CD.”
I scoffed. “Did you really think I’d make you drink anything else? I picked up a bottle from Birdie’s this morning.”
“You are…”
“Amazing? Wonderful? Incredibly sexy and handsome?”
“Those last two are kind of the same thing.”
“All of the above then,” I said, shooting her a wink.
Our flight attendant appeared then. “We’re about ready to taxi,” she said. “You should take your seats.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in the air, and an hour after that, Delia slumped back in her seat with a happy groan, hernapkin landing on her empty plate.
“I’m never flying commercial again.”
I had to agree. It had been a last minute decision to have my chef at Birdie’s prepare me and Delia breakfast of eggs Benedict, home potatoes, and Greek yogurt parfaits loaded with strawberries and blueberries.
Simple, but delicious. Not to mention, I knew it was her favorite.
Delia and I had spent plenty of alone time together, but never like this. We were encased in a metal tube hurtling through the air somewhere over Canada. No prying eyes, no nosy sisters or financial managers here to barge in on us.
Something about it was almost romantic. And I was doing everything I could to avoid thinking about the fact that there was a bedroom not twenty feet away from where we sat.
I swore this woman could read my mind sometimes because, with a furrowed brow, attention zeroed in on the mimosa in her hand, she said, “Are you a member of the Mile High Club?”
In the middle of a sip of my own drink, I practically choked, coughing roughly to expel the liquid from my windpipe. When I collected myself and looked up again, Delia met my eyes with a Cheshire smile on her lips.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I—” Fuck. The last thing I wanted was to be talking about sex with this woman when Ithoughtof nothingelse. Actually, no. The last thing I wanted was to be talking about the fact that I’d had sex with women who weren’t Delia. But, she’d asked, and I wasn’t going to keep it a secret from her.
“I am, yes,” I rasped at last.
“What was that like? Who was it with?”
“I’m not talking to you about this,” I grumbled.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not important.”
“Why? You embarrassed?”
I looked her dead in the eye and said, “Because if I have my way, the next woman I fuckanywherewill beyou.”
