by Rissa Brahm
“You were right about the soldier’s modesty. She declined right away…but I convinced her. She was very appreciative and thanked you.”
“But…you didn’t tell her it was me…my name, right?”
“No, Mr. Trainer, I did not tell her your name.” She flashed him a reassuring smile.
He held out his hand. “It’s actually Dr. Benjamin Trainer…but please, call me Ben.”
A sharp, hot surge of disgust hit her between the eyes.
Doctor.
Her headache raged.
How was it possible that Mr. Tall, Sweet, Somewhat Solemn and Too Serious but Subtly Sexy could turn into Dr. Arrogant Prick Good Samaritan in a single, solitary instant?
Chill out, Pree. He hadn’t stated his title in a snooty tone, but, wow, had her perception of him done a one-eighty.
But Kyla Ruiz Allen hadn’t corrected her when she’d missed the Sergeant title on the soldier’s uniform name tag. Though the woman had every right to. Did this guy really need to shove his title in her ear?
Give him a break. Maybe it was for safety’s sake? Letting her know he was an MD in case of emergency?
Here in the twenty-first century, a PA announcement sufficed in finding a medical doctor on board, if need be. Had this guy ever flown before or seen a movie? She swallowed back the thick knot that had lodged itself in her throat. “Your seat, Doctor, is in the seventh row, letter B for Bravo.” She smiled, showing no teeth, trying like hell to hide her surfaced disdain—his enticing confidence from earlier had morphed into an air of cocky superiority she just couldn’t stomach.
“Thanks so much for doing that for—”
“Good morning, everyone, this is your captain speaking. Jetta Air welcomes…” the loudspeaker announcement began.
“You’d better take your seat now…Doctor.” Yeah, she went there again.
Preeya! You’re being a bitch.
Damn it, fine. “And have a nice flight.”
He smiled and lingered and swallowed and nodded while she said nothing, only offering her perfect FA-trained smile, hands folded neatly in front of her. Then, finally getting the hint, he walked his tall, cocky doctor-self down the aisle to his seat.
“He’s not gonna have a very nice flight, I can tell you that,” Preeya whispered to Amanda as her friend gathered the items for the safety demo that Preeya was supposed to have started already. “The guy’s six foot something—he’ll be hella cramped in his new economy seat.”
“God, I hope he’s okay. You just don’t find sweethearts like that, like…ever.” Amanda scooted by Preeya and raised the sample seat belt buckle above her head as the prerecorded safety spiel began.
“Yeah. I guess,” Preeya mumbled then sat in her jump seat and buckled up. While she waited the minute for Amanda to come back, she took out her cell, swiped through more VM alerts and missed calls—Aunt Champa and Dad—and slammed out a text to her sister. Seattle to Houston to Pto. Vallarta. Love ya, little sister, Pree. Then she followed the text with a wide-smiling selfie. Totally fake smile…Prana will know it. Her sister was developmentally delayed but more intuitive than even Gigi most times.
Amanda plopped down beside her. “Hey, you sent your text out?”
“Yeah…you?”
“Yeah. But I wonder if my youngest would be better off not knowing the whens and wheres?” Amanda pursed her lips. “On my last off days, she snuck into bed with us—nightmares of me…not coming home.”
“Yeah, it’s hard when you’re little.” Preeya hid the chills shimmying up her back, then cleared her throat.
“It’s hard for my oldest baby, too—”
“Renee?”
“No, she’s fifteen—could care less. I mean Brad. He’s getting fed up with my being gone. Beyond his cock and the kids, I think he genuinely misses me.” Amanda’s brows danced, then transitioned into an empathetic smile.
Marriage was not a topic she grasped, so Preeya steered back around. “Prana doesn’t really get what I do, just that I’m not with her.” A different rippling chill hit her chest.
Guilt again.
Amanda patted Preeya’s leg. “Hey, that tall and super-sexy doctor…you know he’s with Doctors Without Borders? Modest as hell, too. I had to yank it out of him while he was standing back here…waiting for you.” Brows waggled with unwarranted excitement.
Preeya rolled her eyes. “How humanitarian of him…” Her annoyance level shot up a few more degrees.
“Wow, Pree. Bitter much? What’s your deal?”
“First off, did you see the way he was looking at me? Now I get it…hungry for the easy flight attendant before his stint in the third world?”
“I didn’t get that vibe from him at all—he even referred to you as the ‘beautiful attendant with the violet eyes.’ And he’d already let on that he knew your name. Preeya rolled off his tongue like a perfect tide…while he made love to you on the beach of his dreams.”
Preeya huffed at her friend and grit her teeth.
Amanda cracked up and slapped Preeya’s arm. “Seriously, though, Pree, he didn’t even tell me he was a doctor until five minutes into our obligatory chat while…he waited for you, Violet Eyes.” Amanda smirked.
“Yeah, I’m intentionally ignoring you now.” Preeya glanced at her phone—but she was unable to hold her tongue. “You know I know doctors. Between med school, Prana’s specialists, my dad—they’re all money-driven god complexes. This one”—she motioned up the aisle—“our tall MD in 7B”—with the eyes of damned sunset and liquid gold—“is the worst kind. The kind that doesn’t admit his true nature.”
Amanda shook her head.
“What?”
“You’re such a cynic, Pree.” Amanda laughed. “Not all of them can be bad. So your dad pays the bills by doing tits-and-ass enhancements.” Amanda flipped the page of her gossip magazine. “And plenty of doctors do good without money being their primary focus.”
Preeya leaned into Amanda, gawking at the gossip rag on her lap, and nudged Amanda with her shoulder. “See all those celebs—enhancements galore. Not just a few doctors make a shit-ton of money off of ’em. Hell, my dad’s even marrying one of those…those wax jobs. Tomorrow!”
Amanda sighed. “Oh, Preeya…” Which meant, “Accept it and move on.”
Amanda was right. She should accept her father’s oh-so-selfless path, and remember that she was her mother’s daughter—or, at least, aimed to be.
She sighed and put her attention back on her phone.
Her aunt’s voice message awaited.
“By the way,” Amanda piped up again, lifting her head from the rag, “where did you run off to last night? We missed you in the lobby lounge.”
“Oh, God, don’t ask.” She got goose bumps up and down her arms and rubbed them away as fast as they’d come. “Just really, don’t even ask.” And resumed her last-minute phone message retrieval.
“If you ask me, being done with Evan has got you nowhere fast, sweetie. Empty sex isn’t gonna fill the hole. Well, not figuratively, at least.” Amanda slapped her leg at her own joke. “We’re just not like the other girls, Pree, and we’re better for it…”
Funny. That Amanda thought Preeya’d gone wild after ending it with Evan. The opposite was true. She hadn’t slept with anyone after rejecting the ring. Except now, with Josh, and again, that wild attempt failed wildly. And just because Amanda had a husband waiting at home didn’t mean that an anchor was necessary to keep Preeya grounded, sexually speaking. Anyway, like Dawn had pointed out that morning, the double standard shouldn’t be a thing anymore. But it was to Amanda, and Preeya didn’t feel she had to change anyone’s perspective or explain herself—well, except to herself.
“Well, I don’t believe that I did ask you.” She winked at Amanda and put her phone to her ear to listen to her first voice message before takeoff. “But for the record, last night was supposed to be…different and—”
“Hey, miss. Miss! I thought no cell phones allowed after the plane
leaves the gate?” a paper-thin brunette with a neon-pink lipsticked scowl whined while attempting to pull the bathroom door open, though it clearly read Push.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Amanda cut in. “Please do return to your seat immediately and buckle up. You’ll have to wait to use the restroom until after we reach cruising altitude and the captain has turned—”
“A buncha hypocrites, all of you,” the woman grumbled, and moseyed back to her seat several rows up.
“Why? Why do we do this job again?” Amanda asked.
“Because…” Preeya pressed the number eight on her phone to repeat the message she’d missed. “We love flying these here friendly skies.”
*
Two voice mail messages.
Amy had left an excited, near-hyperventilating report on “the absolute perfection” of the bridesmaid dresses, the weather in Vallarta, and of Darren, Amy’s soon-to-be-husband. Yes, the straitlaced, sweet-as-pie Darren James. Preeya smiled. Though she still had a small glint of angst over attending the event, she was absolutely glad for her friend.
But now on to the second voice mail. Aunt Champa.
Preeya sneered through the entire guilt-saddled discourse for not having yet arrived in Berkeley for the “rehearsal brunch.”
Amanda tapped her leg again. “Hey, you okay?”
The plane picked up speed for takeoff and she quickly powered down her phone. “Yeah, of course.” She shrugged and smiled. “I’m fine.”
Totally fine.
Family. Priorities. Disappointment. Just more of the same BS.
Aunt Champa had raised her since age seven. Which was when Preeya’s mother left, only months after Prana was born. Preeya’s father had to go into private practice—full-time to afford SafeHaven for Prana—which meant he had no time or energy to raise a growing seven-year-old.
So Preeya had been left with a replacement mother while her father all but vacated—he’d visit her on holidays and birthdays. Thanks so much, Dad.
And Aunt Champa? A wonderful mother figure—to her own damn daughter. Preeya’s cousin Asha was the same age as Preeya. Growing up, her aunt had done a pretty pathetic job at hiding her preference. The woman’s disdain for Preeya had been palpable, even—or especially—to a child.
But Preeya found ways around it. Mainly fleeing to the across-the-street neighbor’s house. Gigi. And her then-weekly visits to SafeHaven, to see Prana. She cringed at the memory, having to depend on Gigi’s father to take her to see her sister because Aunt Champa had been too busy—with Asha—to make the trip but once a month. She inhaled the cabin’s recycled air deep into her limited lungs in an attempt to filter out the limitless guilt—her sister, her baby sister, had been the forsaken soul here, the deserted one. Not Preeya.
She rubbed a kink from her shoulder, as if that would clear her thoughts, her shadows. She knew full well that seeing her sister, being there for her, was the only solution. She’d visit Berkeley next month. Then she’d read to Prana her favorite book, Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree, for the millionth time. She sighed into the slight relief settling into her shoulders and neck. Reading that book to her sister, seeing the like-new excitement in Prana’s eyes, always filled Preeya’s heart to the brim. That look Prana gave her, like everything her sister gave her, was exponentially more than Preeya could ever give back in return.
The plane lifted off. Mount Rainier showed her magnificence through the tiny cabin crew window, and Preeya nodded. A good final sight of Seattle. She pulled her book from her purse, the bookmark holding her place was a lilac envelope which held another picture Prana had drawn her. She slid it carefully to a back page and sighed as she began chapter four, entitled “Family Matters.” Yes, family matters, indeed.
CHAPTER 8
In the air twenty minutes, Leena rang. And Preeya answered.
“I’m ready for service. You?”
“Yes, Leena, we’re all set,” Preeya said, just having finished going over the beverage stock on her cart.
“Before you take the cart out, do offer a real drink to that doctor who switched with the servicewoman. Courtesy of the airline.”
“Sure thing,” Preeya said hiding the grimace from her reply. Yes, she was being admittedly judgmental of the man, but with her asshole father on her brain, her less-than-kind attitude toward the good doctor crept up her spine.
She smiled and nodded her way up the aisle. Seventh row. Seat B. Yup, his knees were so high he couldn’t even put his tray table down. God, that sucked.
“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Trainer…”
“Oh, hello…Ben, Ben please…”
“Okay, Ben. Well, the airline would be honored if you’d accept an in-flight beverage—wine, champagne, a mixed drink?” She handed him a menu. “Whatever you’d like. A small thank you for your kind and noble gesture.” She laid it on thick, as thick as artery-clogging butter, but the alternative, quite the opposite, wouldn’t have been what Leena intended.
“Thank you so much, but no, I’d prefer not to drink any alcohol. The whole doctor-on-board thing. Just…safer.”
Of course. “How responsible.” And self-important. “Then may I offer you a special meal instead? The sergeant will still get your first-class meal, but we always have additional elite guest meals. Today’s salmon or shrimp options are actually quite delicious,” she lied.
“Sure, yes, please. That would be nice…thanks so much, Preeya.”
She forced a polite grin at hearing her name from his lips then nodded. “I’ll have it for you shortly, then.” As she spun to leave him, the voice of the tween-aged boy—backpack interrupter in the next row—cracked to a start. “Ma, is there really no meal service on this flight? I’m seriously starving.”
“I told you to eat at the airport, but you didn’t listen. Now sit tight and watch your sister,” the mother said in a harsh whisper, then got up from her seat and moved into the aisle. “Excuse me, miss? May I use the restroom quickly before the drinks cart blocks the way?”
“Of course ma’am. And…go ahead to the one in first class. The ones in the back are taken.” Preeya let the woman by, then made her way through first class—smiling and nodding—to grab the very special meal for the very special passenger in 7B.
*
He watched her shimmy through first class. Preeya—a freeing, breathing name to match such a woman. Preeya. She was of either Middle Eastern or East Indian descent, he thought. Exotic, stunning…and slightly snarky. He whispered to himself through a subtle smile. “Preeya.”
And the thoughts sweeping through him brought with them a next round of guilt. Looking at another woman at all—just deplorable. Even though it’d been a year. It just felt…wrong.
What did it matter? He wouldn’t act on the surge of heat she’d ignited. No chance.
And since their brief and official introduction in the back of coach class, he had a strong sense that she wouldn’t act on anything, either—he’d noted the sudden change in her disposition the moment he’d mentioned his title, which he did on every flight he took to make sure some crew member knew in case of emergency. Maybe she thought him conceited or arrogant by doing so? Not his intention, of course. Not by any means. So even if he’d felt some kind of two-way connection at the earlier pillow-crash site, it had vanished since.
He sighed then shoved his feet flat on the ground to see if his high knees would drop any lower. Nope. So he’d be dining on his lap today.
A minute past and Preeya was back. He tried hard to contain himself—his too-wide smile and jackhammering pulse—as she handed him the concise tray of shrimp with a colorful pilaf, crisp-looking broccoli with a glistening roll on the side. He heard the boy in front of him huff then turn to see his meal through the seat crack. Ben nodded at the peeking boy, then at Preeya. “Thank you. It looks delicious.” He lifted his brows then smirked, noting Preeya’s awareness of the envious passenger in front of him.
Preeya lightened some, her lip curling into a softer smile. “You’re qu
ite welcome. Any regular beverage with that?”
“Water, please. Just water. Oh, and with lemon and no ice?” Shut up, Ben. Aiming to prove her theory right? Or maybe he was a stuck-up asshole pretending not to be.
“Sure. No problem.”
He did not miss the eye roll she worked hard to hide. As an air hostess, he figured she must get the most obnoxious requests from passengers and hate it. And he’s just another passenger. Lemon, no ice. He shook his head while his eyes followed her form back up to first class.
Eat, Ben. Just eat.
He looked at the first-class cuisine on the tray teetering on his knees, then a few inches higher at his audience—the boy’s peering eye maintained its steady focus.
He smiled and sighed then unclipped his seat belt. Holding the tray of elegant sustenance, he stood up. He was tall enough to easily bring the tray up, over, and down onto the lap of the boy in front of him. As he sat back down and buckled up, a gasp of happiness floated up and over the sixth row.
“Wow, mister. Thank you!” One shrimp already in hand, near his mouth. “Thanks so much!”
“Don’t mention it, bud. Enjoy.”
Ben reclined into his economy-class seat with its semi-flexible pleather headrest that cradled his…neck, then adjusted his smashed kneecaps against the hard plastic of the folded tray table, and let his eyelids close. He sighed into attempted sleep.
*
Preeya returned to Doctor Ben with the water—lemon, no ice—but…he’d dozed off?
“Miss!” 9F waved at her and without giving Preeya a chance to tell the woman she’d be right with her—so she could figure out where the finished first-class food tray had vanished to—the woman called her again. Preeya played dumb; the woman could wait. Was the doctor’s tray under his seat? She didn’t see anything under those long legs of his. Maybe Leena or Amanda had come by? She screwed her face at the man, peaceful and calm despite, God, how incredibly uncomfortable he looked. She couldn’t help but smirk but then scolded herself just as 9B tapped her on the shoulder. How bad she wanted to give the cup of water in her hand—Ben’s water—to that woman, Josh Bolte style.
