Page 30 of Omega Artist
All sorts of naughty thoughts invade my mind as I give the guy who must be in his late twenties a raunchy once-over. I can’t even blame it on the romance novels that fill my Kindle. Broad shoulders. Muscular body. Square jaw. I wonder if he does some modeling on the side. Yup, I have a dirty mind on my own, thank you very much.
You know what? Scratch that, I consider thinking about sex to be healthy, not dirty, even though it can sometimes end up being messy. So, I let my mind mull over the tone that he used when delivering his offer. Is he proposing more than what’s listed on the flight’s menu?
Nah, it can’t be!
Before I know it, I get my answer; he disappears without further notice.
Yeah, he’s just doing his job. Too bad!
Biting the corner of my bottom lip, I hand him the empty glass and resign myself to patiently wait for dinner to be served now that I ordered the fish. I booked the red-eye so that I could sleep on the plane and prevent jet lag.
“Is it your first time in New York?” the woman seated closest to me leans in to ask in a whisper. Her clothes are mostly loose, purple and green with a hippie feel, while mine are fitted, cream, and navy blue.
I explain that my mother is an American—still can’t use past tense when I mention her—and that her brother lives in New York, so I visit whenever I’m on sabbatical. From the intensity in her eyes, I can tell that she’s curious as to how a young woman like myself can afford to travel first-class.
Well, lady, that doesn’t only happen to twenty-something business moguls in my romance novels!
I’m well aware that my gruff voice and baby face don’t match and make it difficult to gauge my age. People usually think that I’m much younger and have a cold affecting my voice, so the astonishment that I read on her wrinkled face doesn’t surprise me. I would have reacted the same way if I were in her shoes. It’s one of the perks of being financially independent. On second thought, I’m technically supposed to inform Father of such things, including my whereabouts, but there’s always an exception to the rule.
“Hey, I’m Eileen, by the way.”
“Alie.” I shake her hand and take note of French-manicured nails; mine are also manicured, but I favor either bare or nearly black nail polish. Today it’s the latter.
It doesn’t take long before she gets chatty and I’m wondering how much she’s already had to drink. “I’m going to stay at my son’s in Greenwich Village. So, Michael, my son, is getting married on Valentine’s Day. He’s a fashion designer. He’ll be marrying a man. That’s what happens these days.”
“Yeah, some people meet their happily ever afters in the most unexpected ways these days, right?” That’s when I conjure up a modern fairytale in the form of an online love story between the French heiress of an upscale chain of outlet stores and a tormented American artist. It’s more fun if the hero is a brooding one, isn’t it? I alter a few details to spice things up. “So, here I am, crossing the pond to see if our online connection can become something else!”
“Ohhh…” She fans herself with the in-flight magazine. “That’s so romantic.” My mouth quirks up.
“I think so, too.”
Right, Eileen. Romantic is my middle name.
Romantic when I pretended to fall asleep while Tig waited for me to call him, and it took another week for us to get a hold of each other. Don’t they say that anticipation makes it better? Romantic when I coerced him into admitting that he uses his own hand while I’m saying raunchy things to him. Don’t they say that words have power? Romantic when I whispered to him as I got myself off listening to his hoarse voice. Don’t they say that sex is more than intercourse? Then, I need to take this to the next level. Here I am, leaving Paris’s relatively mild winter behind to battle a brutal New York one so I can see him in person, and he doesn’t even know it.
Yeah, without a doubt, Romantic is my middle name.
“Here you go.” A masculine voice tears me from my less than romantic thoughts.
I survey my surroundings and note that Eileen’s dinner was already served.
Damn, I’m a master at zoning out lately! I hope Eileen didn’t think that I was ignoring her.
“Your special meal.” The flight attendant doesn’t make eye contact when he asks what I’d like to drink.
“Plain water is fine, thank you.” Once again, our fingers brush. I’m not imagining things. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there. The tip of my tongue travels across my lips.
“Bon appétit.” His French accent is pretty flawless.
“Merci.” Unsure of his skills in French, I continue in English. “I’m quite hungry.” I reply with a flirtatious grin, and his cheeks turn pink. Oblivious to our little game, Eileen follows suit and wishes me a good appetite in French; her accent is much stronger.
We continue our discussion about travel habits, family ties, and airline services throughout dinner. She’s a lot of fun and quite a talker, and from time to time, my mind drifts away between bites.
Soon enough, it strikes me that Eileen’s fast-paced words have ceased. I tilt my head to find that she’s dozed off and chuckle; must be the wine that she had all throughout dinner. The trays are mostly tucked away. The passengers are mostly asleep. The aircraft is mostly dark.
Three men take residence inside my head.
My meddling father. I escaped before he had the chance to place me in the arms of someone who I’d call a business deal. After the latest argument with Father, I realized that it was time. The man simply has no boundaries as far as my personal life is concerned; I had to teach him a lesson. Against all odds, I bought a one-way ticket to New York City on a whim. There, I can carry on with my online job and escape my father’s judgment that becomes more suffocating by the day.
