In Flight (Up in the Air #1)(2)

Stephan gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading into the flight deck to have a briefing with the pilots. This was the main reason that Stephan took the position of lead while I took the first class galley position. I hated dealing with pilots. Stephan handled them beautifully, often playing my boyfriend when they acted even slightly interested in me on a personal level. Half of the people we worked with thought we were an item. Stephan wasn’t out openly. It was a personal choice he’d made a long time ago, and one I understood completely. He’d had a rough time of it when he came out to his parents about being g*y, and just felt safer keeping his preferences to himself.

I popped the cork off of the champagne bottle quickly and quietly, filling five glasses with practiced ease. I took slow, deep breaths to manage my nerves. I was used to managing a certain amount of anxiety. I tended to be an anxious person, though I hid it well. I just wasn’t used to this type of nervous tension, or this much of it. And the cause of it today was, well, out of character for me, to say the least.

I swept from the galley with a burst of forced confidence. If I could keep a full drink tray steady at thirty-five thousand feet, in three and a half inch heels and turbulence on a regular basis, I could certainly serve a few drinks on steady ground.

I was doing just fine, my tray-laden arm steady, my feet sure, right up until I looked up from the ground and into the vibrant turquoise eyes of Mr. Cavendish.

As seemed to be his habit in our very brief acquaintance, he was watching me intently. His lean, elegant figure was lounging in the cream leather seat with a casual boredom that his eyes lacked. Was it his intent stare that unnerved me so badly? Probably. That intent gaze seemed to hold me strangely captivated. It could also have something to do with the fact that he was hands-down the most attractive person I’d ever seen. And I saw a lot. I’d served all types. From soaps stars, to movie stars, to all types of models. Hell, even Stephan was undoubtedly model material. But this man was quite simply the most stunning person I’d laid eyes on in my twenty-three years.

It was not one feature in particular that made him stand out so starkly, though all of his seemed flawless. Perhaps it was his deep golden complexion, combined with his sandy brown hair, which hung straight, just hitting the collar of his crisp white dress shirt. It was that light brown color that sat somewhere between blonde and brown, choosing neither, but somehow hit a shade that was lovelier than both. And his deep tan belonged on a surfer, or at least someone with dark hair and eyes. But his eyes weren’t dark. They were a bright turquoise and stood out starkly with his unusual coloring. And they were so damn piercing…I felt as though he knew things about me with just a look, things he couldn’t possibly know.

As I stared at him, frozen in place, he smiled at me, his expression almost affectionate. His mouth looked so soft, pretty even, framing his straight white teeth. Even his nose was perfect, straight and appealing. He was just so stunningly good-looking. The thought struck me, not for the first time, how unfair it was for one man to be that devastatingly handsome and also a billionaire still in his twenties. Anyone born so privileged was surely an awful person. He’d probably never suffered a day in his life. He’d probably had everything handed to him so easily that he was already arrogant and dissolute, bored with things that the rest of us strived for. There was no outward sign of that, but how could I see past his stunning outward appearance when I was so easily distracted by the beauty of it?

I quickly snapped myself out of that line of thought. I was being unfair, I knew. I knew nothing about this man and I certainly couldn’t judge his character poorly based on what I’d observed so far. I hadn’t realized how bitter my attitude had become towards those born to privilege. My own upbringing had been stark and brutal, and I had personally experienced a profound level of poverty, but I couldn’t let that be an excuse to pass harsh judgement on someone who had been nothing but polite to me. I had to keep telling myself that, but being hopelessly attracted to him wasn’t helping. That unwilling attraction made me instinctively want to lash out.

I swallowed, trying to wet my suddenly dry throat. “Hello again, Mr. Cavendish.” I tried to nod at him politely, but as I did so, my drink tray wobbled precariously.

Mr. Cavendish moved unbelievably fast, half-standing to steady my tray over the seat between us. I watched in abject horror as a splash of champagne made it onto the sleeve of his dark gray suit jacket. That suit undoubtedly cost more than I made in a month.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Cavendish.” My voice was breathless and soft, which further flustered me.

He ran his free hand restlessly through his straight, sandy hair. The silky strands seemed to stay artfully out of his face. It was supermodel hair. Damn him.

“Don’t be sorry, Bianca,” he admonished me in a velvety deep voice. Even his voice was unfair. I reeled at the knowledge that he’d remembered my name.

He steadied my arm gallantly, and eventually released my tray when I told him I had it under control.

He turned down my offer of a glass of champagne. I belatedly recalled that he didn’t touch any kind of alcohol.

“Just some water, when you get a chance,” he told me with a warm smile.

I finished my champagne pre-board service. I still had only five passengers, so it took me no time at all.

I set my tray on the counter in the galley and went back through to collect jackets and take orders for the inflight service.