Nice work, Violet.
I could spontaneously combust with shame as I speed toward the bag, but I refuse to give B-Is-For-Bastard Underwood the satisfaction. I don’t dare risk a glance back in his direction, but as I haul the strap up over my shoulder, I’m nearly positive I hear someone laugh in a gritty, entirely-too-recognizable voice.
Asshole.
I practically sprint away, eyes smarting with infuriating tears as I round a corner and dash into the first restroom I come across. The stall door slams behind me and I fall back against it, panting hard. I’m pissed at myself for allowing a total stranger to get so far beneath my skin, for pushing my buttons until I’m teetering on the edge of a total meltdown.
It was an honest mistake!
He didn’t have to be such a jerk about it.
Pushing thoughts of B. Underwood — and his distractingly full mouth, chiseled jaw, and dark eyes — from my head, I force deep breaths in through my nose until my heartbeat has returned to its normal tempo. There’s no time to be embarrassed. I have a flight to catch and employers to impress.
After a quick rummage through my duffle, I locate a pretty blue sundress in the depths of my bag and pull over my head. The coffee-stained blouse and black skinny jeans are banished to the bottom of my backpack, alongside the three travel-sized bottles of SPF50 suntan lotion Mom forced on me. Staring into the fluorescent-lit bathroom mirror, I yank a brush through my curls to give them some volume, swipe some sheer gloss across my lips, and straighten my shoulders.
I look composed — on the outside, at least. I barely resemble the flustered girl at baggage claim, except for the slight red blush still tinging the apples of my cheeks. Or, so I assure myself as I gather my bags and head for the door, my gauzy skirts swishing around my legs with each step.
Anyway, I think, walking from the bathroom with my head held high. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll ever see that jerk B. Underwood again.
Looking back, I can almost hear fate laughing at me.
That bitch.
Chapter Three
T A K E O F F
A chauffeur in a smart black suit is waiting for me at the curb, holding a sign bearing my last name. He barely says a word to me except to confirm that I am, in fact, the ANDERSON he’s been waiting for as he holds open the back door of a sleek silver town car that says PRIVATE SUITES across the flank in crisp capital lettering. I scramble gracelessly inside, somehow managing to bash both my forehead and my funny bone in the process. The vehicle is fancier than any I’ve ever been in, including the limo my friends rented for prom. There are creamy leather seats, customizable air settings, and complimentary French seltzers in every cup holder. I feel markedly out of place as we pull away from the curb and head for the private terminal.
Chartered flights leave LAX from a special runway across the road, designed to prevent celebrities and other VIPs from having to mingle with us common folk.
The horror!
I ignore the thudding of my heart as I’m ferried away from the main airport. It’s a quick trip to the terminal — no more than a five-minute drive across the tarmac. I have a front row seat to a superb airshow directly outside my window. Flights taxiing down the labyrinth of runways, silhouetted against the blazing red-orange sunset as they take off for destinations unknown. We weave through a maze of hangars and gates, the aircrafts shrinking from jumbo 747s to sleek, jet-propelled private charters as we leave the commercial gates behind.
As we pull up, I see instantly that the private terminal is a far cry from the frenetic energy of the main concourses. It’s all glass and exposed wood, angular furniture, and polished marble surfaces. I’ve barely made it two steps onto the curb before my duffle is whisked away by a competent bag handler. I keep my small, carry-on backpack with me as a woman in an immaculately pressed black blazer leads me through a nondescript security checkpoint, then down a hallway to a private suite.
The tagline they push on their website — just seventy steps from your car to the plane! — is no mere marketing tool. When the door swings inward, I see a small fleet of shiny jets parked just beyond the wall of floor-length windows. A quick glance around the lavish waiting area reveals a set of pristine white sectionals and a stocked buffet area, laid out to accommodate the rich and famous before they board jets bound for exotic locations.
There are about ten people already gathered inside the room, most of them men in their early forties, huddled at the conference table with their faces poised over phone screens and tablets. They glance up when I enter, but otherwise pay me little attention, returning to their calls and private discussions without missing more than a beat.
A woman with a shiny fall of blonde hair rises from the couch in a single, smooth motion. Her long limbs are concealed by wide-legged white linen pants — the kind you see on the glossy pages of fashion magazines but never in real life, because surely no one is elegant enough to pull them off. Except, apparently, Mrs. Flint.
“You must be Violet,” she murmurs, friendly but reserved as she slides her hand into mine with a firm shake. My palm feels like a pumice stone against hers. I marvel at her ageless skin — she looks barely older than I am, though I know she’s nearing forty. “Welcome. We’re so glad to have you.”
“Mrs. Flint, it’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Please, call me Samantha.”
“Samantha, then.” My eyes shift downward, to the small blonde shadow hovering a step behind her mother’s wide-legged pants. “And this must be Miss Sophie.”
I catch a flash of platinum pigtails and hear a muffled giggle before the little girl ducks behind her mother, so she’s fully hidden from view.
“She’s a bit shy,” Samantha says apologetically. “We’re hoping this trip will help her get over that.”
“I was pretty shy myself, when I was her age.” I smile as the little girl sneaks a peek at me from behind Samantha’s hipbone.
“She’ll warm up, once she gets to know you,” Samantha assures me. “Isn’t that right, sweetie?”
In response, Sophie gives a small nod and twines her fingers with her mom’s. A pang shoots through my chest as I think of my own mother. With all the drama at baggage claim, I haven’t even had a chance to text her. She’ll be worried.
“Come, sit with me and chat,” Samantha says, leading Sophie to the sectional and gesturing for me to follow. “We’re still waiting on one more person before takeoff.”
I follow hurriedly, sliding my backpack to the floor by my feet. My ungainly plop onto the cushion is a stark contrast to Samantha’s elegant motions. She doesn’t walk; she glides, barely disturbing the air. I wonder if that kind of grace is something that can be learned, or if you’re simply born with it.