“It’s not supposedly.”

“It’s definitely supposedly.” He still wasn’t whispering. “And a part of me is beginning to think you made him up. In case you’re not, though...” He looked somewhat jealous. “If he was any good at fucking, you would’ve never needed to come home with me.”

The man standing on the other side of me leaned closer.

“He’s not made up, and we decided to meet at a hotel,” I said, lowering my voice. “I decided I didn’t want an audience, decided you didn’t deserve to watch.”

“What a shame. I was looking forward to learning what not to do.” He stared at me, narrowing his eyes as the seconds passed. “You really need to work on lying, Gillian. You’re not very good at it.”

“I take it that’s your specialty?”

“Lying?”

“Denying,” I said. “You’re too cocky to believe that anyone else could possibly be better than you.”

“Only when it comes to one particular department.” He stepped closer as passengers pushed by us to get off at Terminal C. “I would’ve never guessed you to be the flight attendant type.”

“Is that an insult?”

“It’s a compliment.” He paused as the tram rolled on once more, finally whispering. “Your attempt at impersonating a pilot makes perfect sense now.”

“I could say the same about you. You never told me you were a pilot.”

“At what point, between eating your pussy and taking you against the wall, was I supposed to bring that up?”

My cheeks warmed as he closed the gap between us, as he trailed his fingers against my silver flight pin.

“How long have you really been flying?” he asked.

“A year, maybe two. And yourself?”

“Twenty.”

“What?” I swallowed, silently doing the math in my head. He didn’t look any older than thirty, and even that was pushing it. “So, you’re in your early fifties? Late forties?”

Another smile. “Late thirties. Where are you headed?”

I didn’t answer. He’d stopped touching my flight pin and was looking at me with the same intensity he did when we first met.

“Do you need to look at your schedule, Gillian?” He leaned forward, whispering into my ear. “I asked where you’re heading.”

“Overseas.”

“Surely you can be more specific than that. What city?”

“London. Where are you headed?”

“London.”

The tram rounded the curve as it approached my stop and I checked his blazer for where a tell-tale Elite pin should’ve been if he flew for the same airline, but there wasn’t one. I let out a small sigh of relief.

“Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “My stop is up next. It was interesting seeing you again, Jake.”

“Only interesting?”

“Yes. Only interesting.”

He didn’t say anything else, he simply continued staring at me, making me wet without any effort at all.

“Now stopping at Terminal D. Gates 1-22.” The speaker system announced. “Please watch your step.”

Jake walked past me and suddenly stopped, looking over his shoulder. “There’s only one Elite flight heading to London this morning. This is where we need to get off for it, correct?”

My jaw dropped. I couldn’t think or get a single word to fall out of my mouth. I just stared at him as his signature, sexy smile crossed his lips, as he looked at me in the same way he did when he pushed me against his bookcase.

“Since you’re not getting off right now,” he said, stepping off and looking amused. “I’ll see you aboard.”

GATE B9

GILLIAN

In flight—> London (HTW)

“Mimosa on the rocks for 3B, mineral water for 4B, and an orange juice for 4A...” I muttered under my breath as I opened an ice drawer.

I was standing in the galley closest to the cockpit, mixing pre-take-off drinks for the first class passengers. I was trying to pretend that Jake was not the pilot on this flight, that he hadn’t purposely brushed his hand against my waist when we boarded and winked at me, setting my nerves on fire all over again.

This is not happening. This is not happening...

To make matters even worse, when I ventured into the cockpit to ask him and the first officer what they wanted for lunch, I was pretty sure he said, “Is your pussy on the menu?” before coughing and asking for steak and a Coke.

“Miss Taylor?” The sound of The Hawk’s voice made me drop a stack of napkins. I turned around to face her and she frowned, motioning for me to fix my hair.

“Yes, Miss Connors?” I asked.

“Would you like to explain why the passenger in 12C has a glass of Sprite in his hand before takeoff?”

She says this like I have a choice...

“Feel free to answer me any time between now and right now, Miss Taylor.”

“He told me he was having stomach pains after eating something spicy,” I said. “I was simply going above and beyond and handling things The Elite Way.”

“No, you were not.” She glanced down the aisle and then narrowed her eyes at me. “Because in The Elite Way, there’s no way in hell that someone in economy has a glass before takeoff.”

I gave her a blank stare.

“Glasses are for first class and they’re not given until we’re in the air. Always. Passengers in economy get a bottled mini water, a smile, and a vomit bag if they’re having ‘stomach problems’ before takeoff. During flights, when we do offer them beverages, they receive plastic cups. Surely you learned this in flight attendant training and you’ve shockingly never made this mistake before, so do I really need to go into the numerous safety reasons behind glass and plastic cups during pre-take-off?”