Page 98 of Caribbean Crush

1. The flight attendant just announced our flight was less crowded than usual, and she invited us to spread out. (Uh, score.)

2. I snagged an aisle seat as planned, and the young woman who arrived to claim the window seat in my row was wearing headphones; she gave me a quick smile but then kept moving and otherwise made no attempt to engage with me.

This is meant to be. I feel good about my decision, which is a relief because there’s no going back now. Not only has this airline snatched a thousand dollars from my bank account, but I’m also already on board the plane, buckling my seat belt, getting comfy. Soon, we’ll all be skimming over the Atlantic.

I expect a wave of panic, something akin to my freak-out on my suite’s balcony that first day aboard Aurelia. Any minute now, I’ll have to drop my head between my knees and think happy thoughts, but ... I feel oddly calm as I settle back against my seat and watch the last few stragglers trail down the aisle. I’ve already perused the in-flight menu and settled on a selection of the carb heavy hitters. My companion in the window seat has her neck pillow on, and she just popped a Xanax; she means business.

I want to ask her if this will be her first time in London, too, but I don’t want to break this perfect, peaceful quiet we’ve created for ourselves, so instead, I turn to the screen mounted in front of me.

I’m just starting to flip through movie options when a flight attendant walks down the aisle, thoroughly inspecting passengers as she goes. I bet she’s about to chide someone for not properly stowing their carry-on items. Just as a precaution, I kick my bag further under the seat in front of me. When I glance back up, she’s looking at me with narrowed eyes. I go rigid, then slowly offer up a shy smile. She keeps studying me long enough that I look over my shoulder to see if maybe there’s a rule breaker seated just behind me, but, no, it’s me she’s staring at. She continues walking, then stops just short of my seat and bends down.

Her eyes spark with something. Is that ... excitement? Why?

Does she love reprimanding people? Maybe it’s her favorite part of the job.

“Casey Hughes?” she asks.

I only now register her slightly strange smile.

“Uh ... yes?” My reply is cautious, mostly because I’m scared I’m somehow in trouble. They can’t kick me off the plane. I’ve already torn into my complimentary snack mix. “How did you know my name?”

Is that standard?

She shakes her head and laughs. “Oh ... it’s just—ma’am, I’m so excited to let you know that you’ve received an upgrade!”

“An upgrade?” I frown, taken aback. “There must be some mistake. Do you want to see my ticket?” I’m already bending down to dig in my purse for my boarding pass. “I’m not like a frequent flyer or anything. Maybe you have me confused with—”

Her smile widens. “Nope. I have it exactly right. If you’ll collect your things and follow me, I’ll lead you toward your new seat in first class.”

I gulp. No doubt the blood drains from my face too. I lean in and lower my voice. “I can’t afford that particular upgrade, so thank you, but no. I’m happy with the seat I have.”

Her eyes widen in alarm. “No, this is completely complimentary. I apologize for not leading with that. This new seat is free of charge ... just for you.”

Okay . . .

Well, as weird as this is, I’m not going to just sit here and argue. I might as well see what this lady is offering me. This could be legit. I might be the beneficiary of some kind of exciting free upgrade. That happens to people, right?

It doesn’t take me long to get my things. Just before I stand, I aim a sad smile at sleeping neck-pillow girl. She would have made a good airplane buddy.

The flight attendant offers to take my carry-on bag, so I’m left to just follow behind her, aware of everyone’s eyes on me. No doubt they heard what she just said. They’re wondering when their upgrade is coming. Because I feel so guilty, I can’t look anyone in the eye before we slip through the partition dividing those grimy peasant seats from first class. I swear they scented the air. The lighting is better, softer, warmer. The aisle is wider. The seats themselves aren’t seats at all; they’re practically private cabins. The seats are arranged in a single-double-single configuration, and almost everyone who’s already seated has drawn their curtains for privacy.

There looks to be a whole team of attendants, one or two for every guest.

Good god.

I assume I’m being led toward a solo spot, but then the flight attendant stops near a pair of seats right in the center of first class.

“You’ll be right here. 3B.”

I catch up to her and turn to check out my new digs. This is nothing compared to where I was previously parking my butt. This is luxury, dripping with class and refinement. My pale-blue seat is large enough to fold down into a bed. In my private cubicle, there’s also a small cabinet, on top of which rests a Dior-branded Dopp kit and pajamas tied with a coordinating pale-blue ribbon. I’m already amazed, and that’s before I look up to see the man sitting in 3C.

My heart plummets, then soars. My mouth drops open with astonishment, and when Phillip glances up from his book, he looks just as surprised as I am. He pulls his reading glasses off and just ... stares.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Why is he so surprised?

Didn’t he know I was on board? Wasn’t he the one to call me up here?

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