Funny that you get more jealous over a pilot who is still in love with his ex-girlfriend than the famous football player who hit on me.
There’re those dots again. I need to get to my room to call him.
We finally make it to our hotel, built inside a renovated historic bank. Vincent holds the door open, and I bump my sunglasses to the top of my head before entering.
The hotel bar is in an actual vault. We walk past it and the circular double staircase toward the brass elevators. Our comfortable running shoes squeak against the marble.
Vincent pushes the Call button.
I didn’t expect you to give me any reason to be jealous.
I roll my eyes. My gaze meets Nathan’s curious one. Maybe I’ll tell him about this later. He’d be amused, I’m sure. He’s got a pretty good sense of humor.
But first I’ve got to take care of Wyatt.
You have nothing to be jealous over. If you don’t believe me, look him up on social media. His name is Nathan Stuart.
Reason and logic may have pacified my boyfriend, but things with Desiree inexplicably get worse. And not only because our plane has a mechanical issue and we’re delayed an hour.
During her predeparture announcements, I’m standing up front, ready to point out the exits, when she introduces me as “Claire, that cute little thing up there who already has a boyfriend.”
I’m grateful not to be hit on by career athletes anymore, but there gomy tips. Not that everyone tips. Tell me again why flight attendants are the only servers in America who don’t automatically get a gratuity for their service.
On top of that, baristas also don’t have to worry about their customers falling asleep after ordering a drink. I made this guy his beverage, but now he’s got his eyes closed and his headphones on.
“Mr. Cirrincione?” I hope I’m pronouncing his name correctly. Do bothCs makeSsounds? Do I pronounce theIand theOseparately? Is theEat the end silent? I try a couple more pronunciations with no response.
I don’t want to bother Mr. C if he’s sleeping, but what do I do with this drink? If only he’d opened his tray before closing his eyes, then I could leave it here. Or if he were traveling with someone else, they could wake him or accept the beverage on his behalf. But our planes are so little that there’s only one first-class seat on his side of the aisle.
I straighten and return to my galley to dump his orange juice in the garbage. Yes, we dump drinks in waterproof trash bags. It’s still weird to me, but we can’t pour them down the sink.
I make drinks for the couple sitting across from him. Maybe he’ll hear me serving them and wake up. Nothing.
All right. Moving on. Last row of first class.
I stride past him without a peep, but as soon as I deliver the ginger ale and mint tea and turn around, he’s upright and scowling.
He rips his headphones from his ears to wear around his neck like a spiked collar on a bulldog. His eyebrows have gone completely white. They also stick out as if he’d accidentally put his finger in the power outlet at the base of his armrest. “Why do you refuse to serve me?”
I blink. “Sir, I—”
“You walked right past and served the people behind me first.”
“No, I tried—”
“You wouldn’t give me orange juice before we took off either.”
I’d run out of orange juice in the front galley and couldn’t get to the back galley to restock while we were boarding because the aisle was filled with passengers and luggage. I’d explained this to him at the time, buthe’d been wearing his headphones, so perhaps he hadn’t heard. Once we’d taken off, I’d made a special trip to the back just for his OJ, but that’s gone now too.
I press my lips together. He may have removed his headphones, but he’s still not listening.
Different flight attendants are sure to handle situations like this differently based on their personality. Then there’s how we want to respond versus how weshouldrespond. One wrong move and our airline makes the news.
“Let me get that for you now, sir.” I’m not going to try his last name again. He’ll forever be remembered infamously as OJ.
I avoid eye contact with other passengers. No need pulling more people into my drama.
With a deep breath, I grab a clean glass and napkin to carry on my tray. I’ll have to get more juice from Desiree again.
