Chapter Seventy-One
Ah, man. I’m never flying anything but freakin’ first class again!
Sure, the cabin looks a bit like the plane has vomited gold accents, but my seat has its own mini-bar and a snack basket. And I say seat, but suite has to be a better description—it has doors, for fecks sakes! And we were served champagne while still on the ground. With warm nuts. Or coffee and dates, if you’re that way inclined. Which I’m not.
And there’s a bag with slippers and jammies for the journey, and one full of posh toiletries. And an à la cart dinner menu to be served at my leisure, with proper linen and cutlery. And did I mention champagne? Dom Perignon!
Yes, please, I’ll have more of that.
I’m so glad I didn’t fill up with biccies as I tuck into my mezze, which looks like something that would be served in a 5-star hotel. Kai has caviar, which I think is kinda posh fish roe, like something a nana would eat back in the day. Then we eat steak and potato dauphinoise, which I’m disappointed to learn is really just a posh potato bake.
And I have more champagne.
And Kai has a cappuccino and asks if I’d like to book a shower, because seriously, there are showers. How awesome is that? I can shower forty thousand feet above the earth!
I watch as he taps away on his laptop. In fact, I think I stare at him adoringly.
‘I’m feeling supremely relaxed.’
Abandoning my viewing choice, effectively offering decades of viewing pleasure, I stretch out on my chair, which naturally, reclines flat.
‘You’ll be supremely comatose if you keep up with that.’
‘Keep up with what?’
‘Your Dom.’
For a brief moment, my mind jumps to other explanations, inevitably springing to dominance and sex. Until he gestures to my fourth—fifth?—empty glass.
‘I’d switch to water, if I were you. In-flight alcohol isn’t such a good idea.’
‘Pssht!’ I gesture dismissively with my hand. As if. I’m flying first class and I’m going to get the most out of it. ‘Whatcha doin’?’ I lean over the lowered divider between our seats, his gaze having returned to the laptop screen, his reply delivered in its general direction.
‘Trying to catch up on what I’ve missed.’
‘Have you lots to catch up on?’ He doesn’t answer, his brow scrunched in response to a row of figures. ‘Do you blame me very much?’
He blinks, distracted, as though my words take a beat to reach the cognizant sector of his brain. ‘Why would you ask that?’ he asks softly, his gaze rising slowly to mine. ‘Work is... nothing, compared to what you’ve given me.’
I’m distracted from the sincerity of these sentiments by Nina, according to her name badge, a member of the cabin crew, asking if I’d like my glass of champagne refilled. I nod abstractedly even though, watching her, I suddenly feel I couldn’t ingest another glass. Tall and Nordic looking, Nina’s bright blue eyes smile down at me, the soft overhead lighting catching strands of gold in her pale blonde hair. Her red lips co-ordinate with the accents of her uniform, make-up flawlessly applied to her unblemished skin at a perfect minimum.
She asks if “Mr. Khalfan” would like another cappuccino, which he declines barely raising his head. Her long, tanned legs move her along the cabin, a lingering note of Marc Jacobs perfume still scenting the air.
I glance down at my freebie beige, baggy jammies, suddenly not so excited at having found them on my seat, let alone that I’d decided to wear them. I frown at how I’ve folded them at the ankles to prevent tripping on the over-long hem, then stare at my one pink sock and its green companion peeking from beneath.
‘What do you see in me?’ My hand shakes as I bring the glass to my lips, instantly cursing my lack of brain-to-mouth filter, hoping the noise of the plane masks my quiet utterance.
No such luck.
Kai is the undoubted master of non-expression when he wants to be, but as his gaze rises, then follows mine to Nina and then back, I realise he hadn’t registered her beauty at all.
‘She’s the kind of girl who should be sitting here,’ I mumble, plucking at the beige material and swallowing another mouthful, which suddenly tastes like vinegar in my mouth.
‘I think she’d get into trouble, being on duty. Besides, then you’d have to sit on my knee.’
‘Not a short-arsed Aussie who can’t even manage to wear matching socks,’ I almost cry out.
His hand grasps mine with a small tug. ‘Look at me.’ As I do so, he asks simply, ‘You don’t see yourself very clearly at all, do you?’
