It
is impossible to look hot in the dingy fluorescent light of an airport
bathroom. Or as my best friend Becca would say, hawt.
At this particular moment, I’m not hot or hawt.
I make this revelation as I vigorously scrub at my arms and face and
then use a wet paper towel under my pits.
And what is it about peeing in an airport toilet
ten times in a day that makes you feel so completely scummy? I glance around at the crumpled tissues
strewn about on the scuffed floor and the dirty toilets peeking from behind
half-closed doors and cringe. That
answer is clearly ‘because of the germs’. Ack.
Trying not to think about it, I clean up the best
I can. After running a brush through my
hair, I stick a piece of gum in my mouth, apply a thin layer of lip gloss and
call it good. I glance into the mirror
and cringe. It isn’t good enough, but it will have to do. Very soon, I’ll put this dreadful four hour
layover in Amsterdam behind me and before I even know it, I’ll be in London.
With my father.
For the summer.
It would be torture.
Just shoot me now.
And it’s not because I don’t love him, because I
do. My reluctance doesn’t stem from lack
of love. It comes from the deep-seeded
fact that Alexander Ellis doesn’t understand me. He never has and he never will. It’s
something that I’ve made my peace with and I’m not angry about it.
I’m his only child and he works his life away as
some top-secret agent for the NSA. His
job is so secret that I don’t even know what he does. In my head, I imagine him
jumping from helicopters and saving starving children in war torn areas. But in reality, I know he probably sits
behind a desk and analyzes information from a satellite stream or a taped telephone
conversation. I’m pretty sure that’s what the NSA does, anyway. They aren’t the cool kind of spies.
Also, he isn’t exactly sure what to do with a
daughter. I was supposed to have been a
boy. Seventeen years ago, sonograms apparently weren’t as absolute as they are
today, because the technician told my parents that she was 99.9% sure that I
was a boy. They painted my nursery blue
and picked out my name and everything. I
can only imagine the shocked horror on my father’s face when I was born with
lady parts.
Regardless, I know he loves me. Even though he had willingly given my mother
full custody when they divorced years ago, I know he only did it because he
works overseas so much and he isn’t exactly sure how to raise a girl. He does okay.
But then again, I do have some reason to believe that he still pretends
that I’m a boy, just to make it easier on himself. It’s fairly easy to do since I still have the
boy name that they originally picked out.
With my head down, I trudge back out into the
congested halls of Schiphol airport.
Weary travelers bustle around me and I shift my bags so that I can pull
the stubborn strap of my tank top back over my shoulder where it belongs. As I do, I crash into someone with enough
force that my bags go flying out of my hands and scatter onto the ground under
people’s feet.
“Son of a –“ I blurt before I even think.
“Buck?” a male voice offers helpfully.
Looking up, I stare into the most unique and
beautiful shade of blue that a pair of eyes has ever possessed. Of that I am
certain. Blue just shouldn’t be that
multi-faceted and twinkling. There
should be a law or something.
Or at least a warning label:
Caution,
these eyes may cause female knees to tremble.
Before I can help it, I scan the rest of him. Sweet Mary.
This guy had lucked out in the gene department. Tall, slender, beautiful. Honey colored hair that had natural
highlights that could even catch the crappy airport light, broad shoulders,
slim hips, long legs. He is tan and
golden with a bright, white smile.
I am surely staring at Apollo, the god of the
sun. Probably with my mouth hanging
open, which makes me realize that I must look like an idiot- the
personification of what foreigners think Americans to be. I snap my mouth closed.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, trying to still my
racing heart. “Did I run into you?”
“Only a bit,” Apollo says gentlemanly, with a
shrug of his strong shoulders. I can
tell he is strong even through his shirt sleeves, which are snug across his
toned biceps. Sweet baby monkeys.
“How can someone run into someone else only by a
bit?” I ask with a nervous smile as I kneel to retrieve my stuff.
Please
don’t let him smell me right now, I silently pray to any god
who cares to listen. I am sure that at this point in my travels, I probably
smell like soiled hamster bedding.
He bends next to me and picks up the contents of
my spilled purse. He smells like sunshine.
And rain. And everything
beautiful that I can think of. I try not
to cringe as his fingers grasp a tampon and slide it back inside my bag. He doesn’t even flinch, he just casually
continues to pick up my things like he’s used to handling feminine hygiene
products.
“Oh, it’s fairly easy, really,” he answers. He has an exotic sounding accent that I can’t
place. “At least, when you’re not
looking where you’re going.” My head snaps
up and he laughs.
“I’m kidding,” he assures me as he extends an arm
to me. Even his hand is graceful. I gulp
as his fingers curl around mine. “You
can bump into me any time you’d like.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “I think.”
“I’m Dante,” he tells me, his impossibly blue eyes
still twinkling.
“I’m Reece,” I answer with a sigh, already
anticipating his reaction. “Yes, I know it’s a boy’s name.”
“You’re not a boy,” Dante observes. “Most definitely not a boy.”
Is that a note of appreciation in his voice? Surely not. I look like a bedraggled Shih
Tzu.
“No, I’m not,” I agree. “I just don’t know that my dad ever got that
memo.”
I look past Dante and find that he is alone. He seems to be about my age so that’s a
little unusual in these circumstances.
My parents had flown me as an ‘unaccompanied minor’ across the ocean for
years, but other people’s parents are usually a little squeamish about
that.
“I’m sure that fact hasn’t escaped him,” Dante
tells me in amusement. Why do his eyes
have to sparkle so much? I usually go
for brown-eyed guys. But this boy is
most certainly making me re-think that stance.
“That’s debatable,” I sigh. Realizing that we are impeding the busy
pedestrian traffic like a dam in a rushing river, I smile.
“Thank you very much for helping me pick up my
things. Safe travels!”
I turn on my heel and pivot, walking quickly and
what I hope is confidently in the other direction. Hitching my heavy purse up on my shoulder, I
fight the urge to turn and look at him.
Something about him is practically mesmerizing.
But I don’t look.
I keep walking, one foot in front of the other. When I reach the moving walkway, I hop on and
focus ahead of me, eyes straight forward.
Don’t look back.
Don’t look back.
Don’t look back.
Regardless of my silent chanting, when I step from
the walkway I discreetly check behind me.
Apollo is nowhere to be seen.
With a sigh, I continue on to the British Airways terminal. Only three short hours left until
take-off. Plugging my earbuds into my
ears, I settle into a seat and close my eyes.
* * *
“Excuse
me, Reece?”
Before I even open my eyes, I know the sexy accent
is coming from Apollo. I can feel his
epic hotness emanating through my eyelids.
I only hope that I haven’t been drooling in my sleep.
“Yes?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can while my
eyes pop open. I try to discreetly
smooth my hair down. In my head, I envision myself as Chewbacca from Star Wars
and wince.
Dante hands me my phone, which must’ve fallen from
my lap as I napped.
“Are you on the flight to London?” he grins. “They’re boarding priority travelers
now. I just thought you should know.”
Yikes. I had slept for three hours? In a noisy airport? I must have been super tired.
“Thank you,” I reply quickly, gathering my things
in a rush. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.
I’m not a priority traveler, but I probably would have slept through
general boarding. Thank you for waking
me.”
I glance at him as I stand up and can’t help but
do a double take. It isn’t easy to get
used to his particular brand of sexy. He
is laid-back, handsome and casual, which is a formula for utter female
devastation. The impossible thing is
that he doesn’t seem to realize it. He’s effortlessly sophisticated and chic.
“Well, you’re awake now and that’s the important
thing. Have a nice trip, Reece,” Dante grins once more before he joins a group
of men who are apparently waiting for him.
I was wrong, I guess. He isn’t
alone after all. The men close around
him in a tight circle and they board the plane with the other passengers with
first class tickets.
He’s on my flight.
I gulp and find a place in line with the other
travelers flying coach.
As the richer, better-dressed passengers file past
us, I feel a little like a bumpkin in rumpled clothing. Even though I travel to London every summer
to visit my dad, I live in rural America the rest of the year. And all of a
sudden, I feel like I am wearing a blinking neon sign proclaiming that very
fact. The clothing that had seemed
sophisticated to travel in this morning now seems like it was hand-made in
someone’s backwoods shed.
And it so makes
sense that Apollo is in first class. He
smells like a beautiful sunrise in a wooded meadow. Oh, my gosh. What is wrong with me? Where did that come
from? I am totally being as corny as an
erectile dysfunction commercial.
I roll my eyes at my own absurdity and hand my
ticket to the heavily made-up flight attendant who is waiting to take it. She glances at it and then at me before she
stamps my passport and hands it back.
“Have a nice flight, Miss Ellis,” she tells me
before turning her attention to the passenger behind me.
Yeah, right.
I like flying almost as much as I like having
dental work. Or having my fingernails
pulled out one by one. Or having paper
cuts sliced onto my legs and then lemon juice poured onto them. Just about that much.
Filing down the narrow aisle through first class,
I can’t help but search out Apollo. It
doesn’t take long to find him. He is
situated by the window in a wide, leather first-class seat. He’s already covered in a warm blanket and
looks like he is settling in for the hour long flight. As I move closer to him, his eyes pop open
and meet mine, the electric blue of his almost causing me to gasp aloud.
He smiles slightly as I pass and his gaze doesn’t
waver from mine.
I find myself wishing that I could sit next to
him. Not only because of the lavish
first class seats, although those would be nice too.
But rather, there is something in the air between
Dante and me. I can feel it, an instant
connection. I can practically reach out
and touch it. I’ve never experienced
chemistry like this in my life. It’s the kind that seems corny when you read
about it in books, but in real life, it is anything but. It is simply
electrifying. Ripping my eyes from his,
I continue down the aisle and find my seat.
Taking a deep breath, I stash my carry-on in the
overhead bin and slump into the window seat, trying not to hyperventilate as my
fear of flying suddenly overwhelms me while the cramped airplane closes in
around me.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
Repeat.
I watch the flight crew below me loading the bags
into the belly of the plane. What if
they dislodge the landing gear while they are messing around down there? What if they don’t check the systems well
enough and we die in a fiery crash? What
if the metal holding the plane together rips off in the air and peels away like
tissue paper?
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
Repeat.
I might die.
Seriously.
I listen impatiently as the flight attendants give
their safety spiel and motion toward the exits like they are NFL referees with
dumb tiny scarves around their necks. I
just need for them to get on with it.
Just let us taxi out and take-off and then I will be perfectly fine once
we are in the air. My hands get clammy
and my ears start to roar. Why am I such
a freak?
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
Repeat.
You freaking flight attendants.
Hurry.
Up.
I’m just getting ready to shove my earbuds back in
to distract myself when Dante appears next to me like a savior or an angel or
something of equal beauty and importance.
“Is this seat taken?” he smiles and I notice a
dimple in his right cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. How had I missed a dimple?
“Um, not that I know of,” I answer weakly, trying
not to die from heart palpations. “But
the seat belt sign is on. You’re not supposed to be out of your seat.”
Fabulous. Now I sound like a hall monitor with a
heart problem.
Dante shrugs without seeming worried.
“I think it will be okay,” he answers. “We’re not even on the runway yet.”
“Good point.”
“Can I sit here?
I’m bored up front.”
I nod, my palms instantly clammier. “I hope you brought your blanket. You won’t get much back here except for a bag
of peanuts.”
And now I sound like a cheap hall monitor with a
heart problem. I’m presenting myself better and better by the moment.
Dante smiles yet again and sits next to me. He brings his charming accent with him and
the scent of his amazing cologne. I take
a deep breath. He smells far better than
the stale airplane air. Far better. I fight the urge to jump into his lap and
inhale his neck, a maneuver that just might make me appear slightly insane.
“You look pretty pale,” he observes as he buckles
up. “Are you afraid to fly?”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask quietly. “As much as I’ve flown in my lifetime, I
should be used to it. But I’m afraid
that’s never going to happen. Once I’m
in the air for awhile, I’ll be fine, but until then… well, I’m terrified. I
admit it.”
“Don’t worry,” Dante tells me quietly, his voice
calm and reassuring. “There’s nothing to
be afraid of. You’re more likely to get
into a--”
“Car crash rather than die in a plane crash,” I
interrupt. “Yes, I know. I’ve
heard. Where are you from?” I ask
curiously, half out of genuine curiosity and half out of the need to distract
myself. “You have the most interesting
accent.”
He smiles, his teeth brilliantly white. I decide on the spot that I could watch him
smile all day long.
“Caberra,” he answers, reminding me that I had
asked a question. “It’s an island near
Greece. And you?”
“Like you don’t know that I’m American,” I
chuckle. “I know it’s written all over
me. I’m sure you’re a fan, right?”
“Of Americans?” he raises a golden eyebrow. “Of course. I love them. I have no reason not to. They bring a lot of tourist dollars to
Caberra.”
“Well, we are a land of excess,” I admit. “But that’s usually what foreigners seem to
hate about us.”
Dante stares at me for a moment and then smiles. “Well, I can’t speak for all foreigners, but
I don’t hate Americans. And you’re not
in America right now, are you?”
I shake my head.
“No, I am most certainly not.”
“Well, then.
You’re the foreigner now.” He
grins and I can’t help but smile back.
He has a point.
The pilot gets on the intercom and his nasally
voice drones on and on, but I am able to tune it out as I engage in
conversation with a boy who is surely a direct descendent of the gods. There is no other plausible explanation for
his good looks or charm. I barely even hear the words that come out of Dante’s
mouth, because I am so mesmerized by the shape of his lips as he moves
them. Pathetic, I know, but true.
One thing about me: I don’t lie to myself. I might stretch the truth for my parents from
time to time when necessary, but never to myself. And I’m pathetically
fascinated by this boy.
Finally, the aircraft shudders a bit and noses
forward and I startle, gripping the arms of my seat. My fingers turn white and
I am certain that I am leaving permanent indentions in the cracked vinyl
arm-rests.
“Don’t worry,” Dante says quietly, unpeeling one
of my hands and grasping it within his own.
“It will be fine.”
The feel of his hand distracts me. Strong and warm, it cups my own carefully, like
he is holding something very fragile. I
close my eyes and enjoy the feeling. I only have a couple of minutes to soak it
in, however.
As the plane moves down the runway in preparation
for take-off, something happens.
Something isn’t right.
Our plane rocks a little, then quivers, like it is
being moved by a strong gust of wind. I
feel it a brief moment before Dante tightens his grip on my hand, a split
second before light explodes from outside of my eyelids. I open them to discover fire tearing down the
runway past my window. Before I can
react or even scream, all hell breaks loose.
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