Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(13)
My cheeks burn. Good thing a heavy curtain separates the first-class cabin from the rest of the airplane. Nobody can see me. Hot Guy stands, buttons his suit jacket, and does a quick sweep of the interior. He speaks with the two attendants and fits a tiny earpiece into his ear. They bow and stand in front of the blue velvet curtains. There’s a whoosh of the plane door opening. Two men board, both in black suits similar to Hot Guy’s. I sit up a little straighter. Hot Guy is beside me. Sweeping into a low bow, he says, “Your Highness, please come with me.”
I focus on his shoes, black and shiny, then move up—dark suit, dark tie, then the face. He’s younger than I thought—a couple years older than me, maybe. And, oh my God, kill me now, he’s even better up close. So good-looking it’s borderline offensive—pouty lower lip, hooded eyes, straight nose. I’ve been on permanent relationship hiatus since Forest, but now I’m rethinking my anything-with-a-penis ban. My mouth opens and closes. He’s waiting, eyes cool and assessing. “And you are…?” My voice cracks in the middle.
“Kobayashi. Akio,” he says. That’s all. Guess he’s more of the strong, silent type. Okay, totally on board with that.
I stare at him, unsure what to do. My brain is fuzzy. Definitely jet lag, but combined with adrenaline. There’s not a word for my current state. It’s an I’m-in-a-new-country-and-about-to-meet-my-father kind of high.
He shifts on his feet, clears his throat. “Pardon, Your Highness. We really must be going.”
I smile. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Akio.” He’s a bit impatient now. “I should be in the dossier you received.”
“Riiight.” The dossier. Japan Airlines had the first two seasons of Downton Abbey. I’d chosen the historical drama over my own family history. I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it. “I haven’t had much time to look at it,” I explain to Akio.
His dark eyes gleam. “Yes. I’m sure you had more pressing matters.”
Huh. I crane my neck to look behind me. From his seat, he had a perfect view of mine. No doubt he watched me watching Downton Abbey. So it’s going to be like that.
“Perhaps you’d like to check the dossier now,” he suggests, impatience level rising to a ten. The other suits aren’t quite as hostile, but they are just as serious. No help there at all.
“Yes. Um. I would,” I say. My face is on fire, and not in the sexy way from my romance novels, but in the bad, hivey kind of way. I jammed the binder into the cubbyhole beneath the television earlier. Akio’s eyes stay on me as I wriggle it out, my motions the opposite of elegant. Also, the leather makes an unfortunate squeaking sound. I can practically hear the pitter-patter of his heart’s discontent.
I flip the binder open. His photograph is on page five, followed by his contact information and a list of qualifications. Imperial guard Akio Kobayashi will meet you in San Francisco and personally escort you. Twenty years old. Two years with the Imperial Guard, the highest dan in a variety of martial arts, expert marksmanship credentials, and on it goes. It all leads me to believe he could kill a man with his bare hands. How chilling. I say, “I’m sorry about not recognizing you.” I stand and gather my carry-on. “You know girls, strangers and all…”
He flicks two fingers and a suit springs into action, relieving me of my carry-on. “It’s of no consequence.” I should’ve read the dossier. I can’t imagine what he thinks of me now. Actually, I can. He probably spent the entire plane ride mentally writing bad reviews about me. Stuck-up. Didn’t recognize me on the flight. Thought no one could see when she smelled underneath her arms. Twice. So far, unimpressed. This is supposed to be a princess? I don’t get paid enough for this.
“The press knows you are arriving today,” Akio says as he and the other suits usher me off the plane. His tone is short, but his stride is long. I have to take two steps for every one of his. There’s already a stitch in my side from trying to keep up. I should exercise more. But alas, I like cake more than I like running. “They don’t know which flight, but I’m sure they’ll find out soon. Tabloids have bought tickets to gain access to the main airport. We’ve arranged access through the employee areas.”
More suits join us. The theme of our walk is less talk, more hurry. I glimpse the airport—pretty standard as these things go. Clean shiny white floors. Signs and escalators backlit with neon colors. Some differences, though, like a hotel advertising sleeping capsules and showers.
“My luggage?” I ask as I’m guided through a metal door.
“Is being delivered to the palace separately. It should be there before you arrive,” Akio informs me without breaking stride.
The hall is concrete, empty and windowless. Overhead, fluorescent lights flicker. We make our way through, passing doors with signs or numbers. Everything is in Japanese. Finally, the hall widens—we’ve reached the heart of the airport, I’m guessing. The hallways smell of soy sauce and curry and branch off like arteries.
Sweat dots my forehead. I didn’t drink the champagne on the flight, but I did have three cappuccinos—mostly because they came with these super delicious chocolate sticks. A flight attendant noticed and brought me a dozen of them, so I pretty much love her now. Problem is, that dip into caffeinated heaven is coming back to haunt me.