Fly With Me

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Fly With Me Page 3

by Hudson Lin


  She was trying not to laugh again, though failing horribly. Marco didn’t mind, really. Vivian had a pretty laugh and a pretty smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. She had this way of dipping her chin to her chest and then tossing her head to the side to shift her long bangs out of her face. It made Marco want to help push that silky-looking black hair back for her.

  “At least you caught the whole thing on video for your dad. I’m sure he’ll get a good laugh out of it.”

  “Oh, he will.” Vivian propped her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. “I’ll send it to him when we get back to the hotel.”

  “You ever bring him with you anywhere?” Now that Vivian seemed to be in a sharing mood, Marco didn’t want to waste the opportunity to get to know her better.

  Her answer got preempted by the waiter showing up with menus and rattling off the day’s specials.

  “L’acqua frizzante o naturale?”

  Vivian glanced back and forth between him and the waiter a few times before Marco registered the question.

  “Oh, um, sparking or still water?” Marco translated for her.

  “Still please,” Vivian said, half to Marco, half to the waiter.

  The waiter must not have understood any English, because when Marco turned to him, expecting him to nod and walk away, the guy was standing there smiling politely. “Naturale,” Marco clarified.

  “Subito.” The waiter paused a second longer than necessary before leaving them.

  Vivian giggled. “I think he’s flirting with you.”

  “What?” Marco shot a look toward the door where the waiter had disappeared. “No, he wasn’t.”

  She shrugged, a teasing, amused expression lighting up her face.

  Marco jokingly adjusted his shirt. “Although, I could understand if he was.”

  “Do you often get hit on by waiters?”

  “It’s not unheard of.”

  “So . . .” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you into guys?”

  The question didn’t bother him. It really didn’t. But Vivian had this way of springing the least expected stuff on him and leaving him racing to catch up. It’d be annoying if it wasn’t so impressive.

  “Yes, I am.” Marco stated slowly. “I’m also into girls—women.” It was always a tricky subject, and some people didn’t understand how bisexuality could be a thing. What do you mean you like both boys and girls? Can’t you just pick one? Why be greedy?

  Marco held his breath while waiting for Vivian’s reaction. He didn’t have to wait long.

  She nodded as if it all made sense. “So that makes you bisexual, right?”

  He let out his breath. “Yeah, it does.”

  The waiter returned with a bottle and two glasses. It seemed to take him forever to pour the damn water.

  When he finally left, Vivian was grinning so hard, it must have hurt. “He’s totally into you.”

  Under any other circumstances, Marco probably would have been just as interested. But the cute Italian waiter didn’t have Vivian’s razor-sharp wit or her bossy-don’t-mess-with-me attitude. The waiter had never called him a misogynistic asshole and—for some reason Marco didn’t understand—the memory of Vivian’s seething anger when she said that gave him a warm feeling inside.

  “Too bad I’m not into him.”

  Vivian’s barely contained glee softened into a gentle curl of lips. A hint of pink colored her cheeks. After a moment of eye contact, she dropped her gaze to the table. “Where’d you learn how to speak Italian so well?”

  Marco moved his menu to the side so he could settle into his seat more comfortably, leaning one elbow on the table. “I grew up speaking Spanish, so it was pretty easy picking up the other Romance languages—French, Italian, a little bit of Portuguese. English was actually harder to learn than any of the others. I used to hate going to ESL classes.” Marco chuckled, a hint of bitterness still staining the memory.

  “I take it you’re not originally from Canada then?” With her chin in her hand, Vivian had caught the tip of her pinky finger between her lips. Marco couldn’t drag his eyes away from the slim finger as it glided back and forth across her mouth.

  “Peru.” He stopped to clear his throat. “We moved to Canada when I was nine.”

  “Are there a lot of Asians in Peru?”

  Marco nodded as he took a sip of his water. “Yeah, we’ve had two presidents of Chinese descent.”

  “Cosa gradite?”

  They both leaned back from the table at the waiter’s interruption like they’d been caught doing something illicit. Vivian wiggled her eyebrows at Marco and tilted her head meaningfully at the waiter. When Marco followed her motion, sure enough, the waiter was giving him a sultry-eyed simper, powerful Italian charm turned on full. It fell flat on Marco, though, as flattering as it was.

  They ordered quickly and shooed the waiter away.

  “Asians speaking Spanish—it shouldn’t surprise me, but somehow it does.” Vivian leaned back in, pinky finding her lips again.

  “I speak more than Spanish.” Marco waved toward the restaurant. Had she not been listening to him fend off the waiter all this time?

  “I know.” Vivian laughed and grabbed Marco’s waving hand, drawing it down onto the table.

  She let go quickly, but the warmth of her touch lingered on his skin and left his mouth dry. Marco took another sip of water, wishing the waiter would bring their wine sooner rather than later.

  “I’m not used to seeing Asians speak anything other than English and some other Asian language. My brain is still processing what Asians in Europe look like.”

  “Again.” Marco waved both hands up and down, showing himself off.

  “I’m pretty sure not all Asians in Europe look like you.”

  If she’d gone on to the next thought, Marco wouldn’t have considered anything of the comment. But Vivian stiffened a fraction like she’d belatedly realized what she’d said and all the different ways it could be interpreted.

  He wasn’t about to give her a pass. “Oh yeah? And what do I look like?” He leaned in and dropped his voice.

  Vivian’s breasts rose, pressing against her T-shirt as her breath hitched. Her lips parted letting out a silent sigh. She shook her head as she dropped her gaze to Marco’s mouth. She cleared her throat but didn’t lean away.

  “I bet I sound different from other Asians in Europe, too.”

  Vivian’s gaze shot back up to meet his, eyes wide, dark-brown iris with black specks. “Yeah?” she breathed.

  “I learned the power of a sexy accent from an early age. I didn’t want to be the weird Asian kid who didn’t speak English. I’d rather be the exotic Asian kid who could woo everyone with an expertly rolled R.” He exaggerated the roll, bringing it up, then down, tapering off in a whisper.

  Vivian blinked. Then again. Then burst out in hysterical laughter, throwing her head back, exposing her long, slim neck. Okay, he might have pushed the sexy act a little too far. But laughing Vivian was just as good as seduced Vivian in his books.

  “Oh God,” Vivian gasped for a breath. “The exotic Asian kid, eh? Way to objectify yourself.”

  Marco shrugged. “It was that or get bullied. I chose the lesser of two evils.”

  The waiter arrived with their food and wine. Marco barely registered his presence. He was too caught up in the way Vivian’s hair fell around her shoulders, her light, giggly laughter, how her cheeks flushed and everything about her screamed—ALIVE! She wasn’t afraid of trading barbs with him, didn’t fawn over him like he was some movie star. She knew her own mind, and it was the sexiest thing he’d seen in a long time.

  Once the food started rolling, it didn’t stop. First was a decadent bruschetta, loaded with artichokes, mushrooms, salmon, asparagus, walnuts, and olives. Vivian took one bite of it and groaned, her eyes rolling back in her head.

  “OhmyGod, itsogooood,” she mumbled with her mouth full of food. A bit of olive oil clung to her lip, and Marco balled his fingers into fi
sts to keep from reaching over and wiping it clean.

  Then came the deceptively simple classic tonnarelli cacio e pepe, long tube noodles with cheese and pepper. The moan Vivian let out sounded like she was having an orgasm, and Marco nearly choked on the red wine he’d been sipping.

  The meat dish was bistecca di maiale di cinta senese, a pork chop grilled to perfection, accompanied by a side of roasted potatoes. Vivian popped a piece into her mouth, glared at Marco, and then pulled the plate toward her. “This is mine. You can’t have any.”

  “Can you even finish the whole thing?” They’d shared all the dishes so far, but even he was getting full.

  Vivian eyed the pork chop. “Probably.”

  He didn’t doubt it. He loved her enthusiasm for good food.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll share.” She pushed the plate back into the middle of the table with a huff. “But we’re getting dessert too, then.”

  “I wouldn’t dare dream otherwise.” Marco cut himself a big piece of pork, in case Vivian changed her mind.

  They ended up with tiramisu for dessert because they were in Italy and that was the only appropriate choice. Vivian leaned back in her chair as she tucked another spoonful of delicate cake into her mouth. Her hand was on her tummy, rubbing it in circles like she was pregnant. “I could die happy like this.”

  “This is the tip of the iceberg, my friend. There is endless good food in Italy you haven’t tried yet. Plus, France and Spain and Portugal and Greece. The list goes on. You can’t die now.”

  Vivian sighed, melodramatic but glowing with satisfaction. “I know. I must fulfill my duty to humanity and eat my way through Europe.”

  With the sun setting in the distance, painting the sky an ombre of orange fading to black, a halo danced around Vivian.

  Marco put one hand over his heart and bowed his head. “I’ll be happy to be your guide.”

  ~~~~~

  The flight from Rome back to Toronto was full, which meant there wasn’t one moment of rest for Vivian. Up and down the aisle she walked for hours, pouring drinks, collecting garbage, grabbing extra blankets and pillows. One kid in her section had thrown up when they went through a patch of turbulence. The kid’s dad had managed to catch most of it in a vomit bag, thank God, but the smell still lingered in the air.

  Marco was in a different section of the plane this time, working from a different galley, so she didn’t see him much. Though she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. They’d strolled back to their hotel the night before, through the dark streets of Rome, yellow light spilling from the periodic street lamps. Their footsteps were soft clips on the cobblestone, and the air smelled like the waning heat of the summer.

  It was almost romantic.

  If it’d been anyone else but Marco.

  So why couldn’t she stop replaying the evening in her head?

  “All done there?” Vivian asked someone in the four-seat middle section, gesturing to the empty meal tray. When the lady nodded, Vivian grabbed the edge of the tray, making sure to get a firm grip; in case the plane moved unexpectedly, no one wanted to end up with a lapful of used food containers.

  She straightened, and there it was, so fast she could almost believe she’d imagined it. But no. She didn’t imagine the hand palming her ass, squeezing firmly before letting go. She turned, and sure enough, there was an older man in the seat behind her with the leer on his face.

  Rage boiled up inside of her, and she nearly dumped the tray she held on his head. That would accomplish nothing but piss off a passenger and cause a scene. Vivian forced herself to slide the tray back into the cart, shaking so hard she had to use both hands to make it fit. She ran her palms down her thighs, hating her stupid uniform and the close fit of her skirt, hating the patriarchy and how flight attendants were viewed as little more than pretty playthings.

  “Excuse me, sir. You owe my colleague an apology.”

  Vivian spun around.

  Marco was standing right there, expression grim, speaking to the old man who didn’t appear to understand. Marco switched to Italian, spilling out a string of syllables that Vivian didn’t comprehend, but she could guess their meaning. The old man was waving her off, making exasperated sounds, pointing at Marco. Every R rolling off his tongue made Vivian sick to her stomach.

  “Marco,” she hissed. “Stop it.”

  She didn’t bother sticking around to find out what happened next. She unlocked the cart and pushed it back to her galley as fast as it would roll down the aisle. The rest of the section could wait for their trays to be cleared.

  “What an ass!” Marco whisper-shouted as he slipped into her galley.

  “What’s wrong?” Clare asked as she pushed her full cart into its designated space and locked it.

  “Nothing,” Vivian responded.

  “A creepy old guy assaulted Vivian,” Marco said.

  Concern clouded Clare’s face as she turned to Vivian and scanned her for injuries. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Vivian bit out between clenched teeth. Her hands fisted at her sides. “He didn’t a—” The word caught in her throat.

  “I’d call grabbing your ass assault.” Marco raised his voice a decibel.

  “Shh!” Vivian’s voice was shaky.

  Marco stared at her, eyes wide with astonishment.

  “Vivian,” Clare jumped in. “Do you want me to report this to the captain?”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  Vivian glared at Marco, and he glared back.

  “Marco, dear, I wasn’t asking you.” Clare’s eyes were sympathetic as she turned back to Vivian. “Let me know if you change your mind, okay?”

  Vivian nodded, and Clare slipped out of the galley.

  “Why don’t you want to report this?” The indignation in Marco’s voice wasn’t helping.

  Vivian’s gut churned, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Because. If I reported every time someone grabbed my ass or commented on my looks, or told me to fucking smile, I’d spend the entire fucking flight reporting shit to the captain. Half the time, it’s one of the fucking pilots pulling this shit on us anyway. Ask any of the female flight attendants. We’re basically collateral damage.” Vivian braced herself against the wall and bent forward at the waist. Short, shallow breaths until her heart rate was under control.

  “This is such bullshit. How can people expect you to work like this?”

  “It’s more surprising that you haven’t noticed it until now.” Vivian didn’t move, couldn’t see Marco’s face, but the silence was gratifying.

  Then suddenly he was right there. Squatting to his knees so he was eye level with her, a warm steadying hand on her shoulder. “Do you want some water?”

  Vivian nodded, and Marco disappeared again. Quiet, competent sounds bounced around the galley until a small plastic cup with water appeared in front of her. “Thank you,” she whispered and took the cup. The cold liquid settled her stomach and helped clear her head.

  “More?” Marco held the plastic jug and refilled Vivian’s cup. “I’m going to switch sections with you for the rest of the flight.”

  Vivian stopped mid-chug. “What? No.”

  “You can’t work in that section anymore. What if he does it again?”

  The suggestion made Vivian’s gut clench. “I’ll switch with Clare.”

  “So he can grab her ass? I don’t think so. I’ll work there.”

  She wanted to argue. She wanted to say that she was a strong woman who didn’t need a man to step in for her, didn’t need a man to do her job for her. She could handle some old pervert; after all, she’d done it dozens of times before. But as she drained her third cup of water, her relief was acute. She didn’t argue when Marco escorted her to her new section.

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, they were on their way to Paris. Marco was brewing a fresh pot of coffee when Clare came into the galley area and gave a full-body shudder. “There’s a passenger trimming his nails over a
food tray,” she said.

  “At least they’re not cutting them onto the floor,” Marco replied.

  “Did you see the couple in row twenty-five? The ones with the baby?” Vivian dropped some tea bags into a pot and started pouring hot water over them. “They were changing the baby on the tray table. The diaper hasn’t turned up in any of the garbage collections, so it’s probably in the—”

  “Seat pocket,” all three of them intoned at the same time.

  “So unsanitary,” Clare added, shuddering again.

  “We work in a cesspool of a tin can,” Marco agreed.

  They piled the beverages onto a cart and rolled it down the aisle. Halfway, Vivian caught Marco’s eye and glanced furtively at a passenger. Marco followed her gaze and found the guy with the nail clippings. Damn it. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t unsee it. Sometimes it was better to be ignorant than risk not being able to do his job for fear of germs. Humans were a dirty species, and it was especially pronounced when they were all crammed together in a tight space.

  Vivian giggled. “Sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Marco shook his head, but his grin didn’t budge. His lips were permanently frozen into that expression whenever he was around Vivian. Everything felt lighter, looked brighter. The shitty parts of the job weren’t as shitty when Vivian was there to commiserate with him.

  They worked well together, methodically taking drink requests and inching their cart back toward the galley. Vivian was pleasant and spoke in soothing tones, and her hands were steady as she poured cup after cup. Her hair was pinned neatly back, but Marco remembered that day in Rome when it fell in a straight glossy curtain around her shoulders, the way her bangs brushed against her skin. He imagined himself pushing them back and replacing their soft touch with his own, Vivian’s delicate breath warming his hand.

  “Marco.” Vivian was watching him expectantly.

  “Huh? Sorry, what?” He’d totally lost himself in the day dream.

  “Can you check if you’ve got any ginger ale on your side?” Vivian wore an amused grin that said she’d noticed his lack of attention.

 

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