Sexy Love (Sexy Series Book 4)

by Dani Lovell

  Oh good God, I can’t possibly fancy Sebastian Love; he’s a playboy. No, it’s white wine. I’m not used to it. Red is my tipple of choice and I think this Sauvignon Blanc is making me a little delusional.

  “Let’s toast,” he says, raising his glass, “to wonderful French cuisine, excellent company, a fantastic evening ahead, and Alexia not getting tanked, as she so elegantly put it.”

  I laugh, “I apologise, how about… squiffy? Is that better?”

  “Squiffy?” he cries, “I’ve never even heard that word before.”

  “It’s in an old English play, ‘An Inspector Calls’, have you read it? Or seen it?”

  “No, as a matter of fact I haven’t. But I shall make a point of finding a copy and reading it at my earliest convenience, just to see Alexia’s word ‘squiffy’ in print.”

  “Okay,” I chuckle, “but actually I think it was Tilly’s word, prior to mine. She told me where to find it!”

  “Have you read or seen the play?”

  “Yes, I read it recently. It’s not long, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  “Well then, I will definitely read it and we can discuss.”

  “Book club?”

  “Yes, our own little book club. You look hot today, Lexie.”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise at his sudden change of subject. “Oh, thank you.”

  “You always look hot, but I felt an urge to tell you.”

  “Okay,” I nod, smiling, “it was kind of you to let me know your thoughts on my appearance.”

  “Oh stop being so proper, take your jacket off, and unbutton that blouse. We both know we can be comfortable with each other.”

  “This is who I am, Sebastian.”

  “Oh I know this is who you are with strangers and acquaintances, but you forget that I have seen a very different, much more ‘relaxed’ Lexie.”

  “That was inebriated-Alexia. She doesn’t come out much.”

  “She should. I like her a lot.”

  “She seems to like you a lot, too. You clearly make an good impression on her.”

  “Exactly why I’d like to see her again.”

  “Well it’s a shame that I’m not planning on getting drunk tonight, then.”

  “I’m sure we could convince sober… or maybe even tipsy-Alexia to feel as comfortable with me - as drunk-Alexia.”

  “You’ll have your work cut out.”

  “Working hard comes easily to me. I love a challenge.”

  “Let’s see how you get on then.”

  I don’t think he realises how stubborn I can be. If I don’t want to do something, I just won’t.

  The time passes pleasantly as we make engaging conversation and drink the wine slowly. I am doing a good job of keeping my wits about me, I’m not drunk at all and I’m determined to stay that way.

  Sebastian isn’t doing anything that might make me uncomfortable, nor is he being vile or perverted, so I’m finding remaining sober quite effortless. I sound like a damned alcoholic – I am most definitely nothing of the sort – but I have managed to figure out that when he makes me uncomfortable by being crude and it appallingly titillates me, I feel the need to drink to stop feeling confused and disgusted at myself.

  “So, who did you fly back into LAX with from Aspen?” he asks, talking shop.

  “Um…” I think back. “It was… United I think. Yes, United.”

  “Ah okay, what aircraft was it?”

  I pause and frown. “Sebastian, it was an airplane. I don’t know what kind. As long as they have wings, wheels and brakes – I’m good.”

  He smiles and his dense short beard creases into his dimples. “I suppose other people don’t think about these things. It was probably a Bombardier CRJ700. Did you travel in first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Three rows?”

  “Um… yes I think so, two seats on one side and one on the other. It was a small plane.”

  “Yeah, probably a CRJ700. It’s only a short domestic flight so you wouldn’t need a big jet.”

  “Yes, only a couple hours. How far is it? I don’t tend to think of the distance, only the time it takes when I fly somewhere.”

  “From LAX it’s about seven hundred forty or so.”

  “Miles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doesn’t seem that far, does it? How do you know so much?”

  Sebastian laughs. “Lexie, it’s my job to know this stuff.”

  “I know, but with so many destinations, you think you’d have to look it up in a book or something when asked about a specific route or airport.”

  “I do that route a lot, I just know. But we do have ‘books’, too, you can’t possibly know everything about every route by heart. ”

  “Is it a tricky airport to fly into and out of? It seems a little hairy sometimes, as a passenger. Snow must make things difficult for pilots, too.”

  “Well, things aren’t always straight forward, but it’s our job to find out the differences at certain airports and adjust the way we do things, accordingly. Aspen, for example, is a high altitude airport at seven thousand, eight hundred thirty seven feet above mean sea level, which means the crew need to calculate and cross check the aircraft V speeds.”

  “V speeds?” I ask, totally flummoxed but thoroughly captivated by his knowledge and wisdom in this field. Something I know nothing about. It’s attractive.

  “Yeah, VR which is the velocity of rotation, is the speed at which pilots must accelerate the aircraft to on the runway prior to rotating.”

  “Rotating?”

  “Climbing off the runway.”

  “Take off?”

  “Yes, take off. Lift over an aircraft wing is generated by the speed and density of the air that wing is passing through, so if the air density is lower, which it is at Aspen, then the aircraft’s VR will be higher, meaning you need a longer take-off distance than you’d need at an airport with a lower altitude. And in summer, the air temperature increases so air density decreases further so you require an even longer take-off distance.” He uses his hands when he speaks, fully immersed in his subject.

  “That is fascinating, Sebastian, I love to hear about this sort of thing. I always think take-off takes a long time at Aspen, I worry we won’t take off at all! So I suppose it all depends on what type of aircraft you’re travelling on as to how long you’re on the runway?”

  “Yeah, the crew often have to limit the take-off weight at Aspen and other such airports, by limiting payload… excess fuel, etcetera. It’s all to ensure that the aircraft can operate safely from the runway length available at the given temperature and density altitude. We usually refer to it as Mass and Balance calculations – we do this before deciding the fuel uplift figure of that specific aircraft.”

  “Wow, there is so much involved,” I say, awed, sitting forwards in my seat, my elbow resting on my knee and fingertips running across my bottom lip, a position I often take when I concentrate. “And the snow? Does that cause a problem? If it snows on a car, you have to scrape that shit off, I can’t imagine you out on a ladder de-icing your windshield on the runway.”

  He chuckles. “Yes, snow causes issues, and aircraft have to be de-iced. If an aircraft has even a layer of frost the roughness of a fine sheet of sandpaper, it can cause the lift, produced by an aircraft’s wing, to be degraded by thirty per cent. This has previously caused aircraft to run out of available runway or run off the end of runways on take-off.”

  “Oh my God, don’t frighten me now.”

  He laughs again. “Oh don’t be frightened, we know what we’re doing. Any frost or snow that settles on an aircraft must be removed by a spray application of de-ice, followed by anti ice fluid. Depending on the precipitation and temperature, the treatment has a certain hold over time limit.”

  “Okay, so it’s definitely gone by the time I fly?”

  “If your crew and ramp staff knows what they’re doing, which they will - yes. It will be gone and you’ll take-off just fine. You’
ll have to just fly with me in future so you know that you’re safe.”

  I giggle. “Smooth, Sebastian. Honestly, though, everybody knows there’s an awful lot to it, but when you hear some of the ins and outs right from the pilot’s mouth like that, it really makes you realise just how in depth it all really is. That’s why you have one of those certificate things and I don’t.”

  He laughs again and takes my free hand in his across the table, squeezing it affectionately. I don’t flinch. “Airline Transport Pilot or ATP Certificate, and I’m sure, if you had wanted to go down that route, you’d have been more than capable.”

  “Oh I’m not so sure about that, Sebastian, but thank you. What made you want to be a pilot? I mean, my path was well and truly set out for me – I had always wanted to go into the family business and navigated my education accordingly, but I always think how wonderful it would be to have had the world at your feet, to be able to choose any profession you so wish. Of course I had that choice, but I never even considered it. Was there one specific thing that made you want to become a pilot and own the private jet business? Was it something you’d always wanted as a child or did you decide later on?”

  Sebastian raises his eyebrows and exhales loudly, sitting back in his chair and releasing my hand. He looks away and rests his hand on his belly before looking back at me seriously. It takes him a while to respond which initially, I find a little strange. “Yeah, I just always liked the idea. Let’s stop talking about me, anyway. That’s boring.”

  “Oh on the contrary, Sebastian, I find listening to you talk about work absolutely fascinating.”

  “Makes a change to me talking about your fine ass body, huh?”

  I smile and roll my eyes. “Yes, it does. This Sebastian is much more intriguing.”

  “Tell me something,” he asks, “why do you always call me Sebastian when everybody else calls me Seb?”

  “I do occasionally call you Seb, but um… I suppose Sebastian is just what I know you as. Back in the early days before we were… friendly… I felt Seb was too casual. I didn’t think we had the type of relationship for nicknames, even if you would insist on calling me ‘Lexie’ when I repeatedly asked you not to.” I raise my eyebrow and offer him a stern, teacher-like expression, and he laughs – that handsome, masculine smile of his bearing those perfectly aligned, pearly white teeth.

  “What can I say? ‘Sexy Lexie’ just flows off the tongue when I look at you. Does it bother you now?”

  I think about it for a moment. This would be the perfect opportunity to have him stop for good. But does it actually bother me anymore? I don’t think so. “Would you stop if I told you it did bother me?”

  “Hmm…” he says, his eyes squinting as he rubs his bristly chin with his man-fingers. “If you’d be more attracted to me, I’d cut it out.”

  He just knows how to make laughter erupt from my soul, and I can’t seem to control it anymore. I never used to find him as amusing as I do these days, and I feel I could have been missing out all of those years that I avoided him.

  “You can keep calling me Lexie if it makes you happy, Sebastian.”

  “Okay, but you need to at least try to call me Seb. We are friends now, after all, aren’t we?”

  I smile and look down, feeling somewhat shy. How does he do this to me? I’m not shy, and if I ever am, I never let it show. “We are.”

  “Good. I’m glad. Anyway, this bottle is empty – I think we should move on, do you?”

  “Yes, sounds good. Where would you like to go?” I ask, desperately hoping that he doesn’t want to go to a bustling bar and on to a club or anything, I’m really not in the mood for that. What I am in the mood for is some chill-out music, maybe a smaller glass of wine and more stimulating conversation. I know that I don’t want the evening to end, which is actually quite nice.

  “Um… somewhere similar to this? Maybe somewhere quiet? I’d suggest the ‘W’ lounge but it’ll probably be quite busy now.”

  “Yes, I imagine it will. I know; why don’t we go back to my place? I have wine, music and chairs… that’s all we need isn’t it?”

  He smiles, cheerfully. “That would be perfect.”

  “No funny business though, okay?” I say, wagging my finger and he grins.

  “No funny business. Unless you change your mind.”

  I giggle. “I won’t.”

  We get the check and debate momentarily about who’s paying. I am obviously paying because I am covering the food and wine that Tilly and Bea had, as well as my own, but apparently Sebastian is paying because he just is.

  Eventually we agree to pay half each, even though neither of us is happy with the arrangement. I’m actually quite annoyed that I didn’t win that particular battle. I tend to win a lot of battles and it perturbs me when I don’t. That was my check, fair and square.

  We get a cab from Gorge and direct it to my apartment building as we both sit together in the back seat. It isn’t as awkward as it would feel if I hadn’t had anything to drink, but it still feels a little strange to be doing something that could be perceived by some as ‘couply’; leaving a restaurant together; sitting in the back of a cab together; going home to my apartment together… it’s not something I do with anyone on a frequent basis, but I suppose as long as I know what it’s all about, there’s nothing to worry about. The driver can think what he likes. I think.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MONDAY 17TH MARCH CONT.

  Opening the door, I ceremoniously inhale that welcoming, tranquil scent of home. I love work so much, and I spend so much of my time either at the office or doing something related to it, that my home becomes my place of silence, my place of stillness and serenity. No phones ringing, no constant hum of office machinery, no interruptions or stress or authority. At home, I am Alexia. I’m not ‘Alexia Berkeley, C.M.O.’. There’s a huge difference. I often have difficulty letting go of ‘C.M.O. Alexia’, but when I’m home, alone; it’s done.

  I do have a home office, but I try not to use it too much. I don’t want my home to become somewhere I work, and as I live so close to the office, I’d rather make the short journey and do what needs to be done, there. This is the place I retire to, I relax here and I don’t want to start thinking of it as another office.

  I put my purse in its home, on the lower shelf of the side table in the hallway, and smile as I hold my arm out to offer Sebastian a seating area to recline in.

  “Would you like to sit down while I get a couple of glasses of wine?” I ask, strolling into the seating area by the piano at one end of the living room. I don’t want to sit on the couches by the T.V.; after all, I had the designer put this area in for exactly this type of situation.

  I have another such area on the other side of the kitchen, too… in fact, come to think of it; I have an awful lot of seating areas in my home. For someone who doesn’t do an awful lot of entertaining, I certainly like to cater to the butts of many guests. My designer obviously likes spending my money on chairs.

  “Do you play?” Sebastian asks, wandering over to the piano.

  “Only a little, do you?”

  “No,” he says quietly, shaking his head.

  “Did you learn any instruments as a child?” I ask, feeling curious.

  “Er,” he clears his throat, “no, I didn’t. My parents weren’t musical people.”

  “Well, few people can play. I think you’re far better suited to flying.” He smiles only slightly, his eyes fixed on the shiny keys. “Shall I, er…” I point over my shoulder towards the kitchen.

  “Thank you, I’d love one. I’ll come with you.”

  He follows me back through the doorway and right, into the kitchen area. The main living areas of my apartment have no doors; only archways leading into different areas, but the positioning of the walls makes the large space feel separated, which I love. I think the only rooms with doors are the bedrooms, bathrooms, closets and the study.

  I reach into a cupboard for two wine glasses, and then ben
d to select a cold bottle of white from the wine cooler under the counter. I’m normally very against those refrigerators with glass doors – the idea of showing off everything you’re going to be eating seems just vulgar to me. Why should my guests know if I plan on stuffing my face with junk food? I am a very organised person, but sometimes maybe I do just want to throw something back in there without stacking in an orderly manner.

  But I digress, I am against glass refrigerator doors, but on a wine cooler, I think they’re mandatory. They never get in a mess, so long as you only use them for wine and champagne, and if you do decide to deface the thing with a bottle of soda… well, shame on you.

  “I like your place, Lexie, it’s a lot less…” he frowns as he tries to find the right word and I smirk, knowing what he’s going to say. “It’s a lot less…”

  “A lot less...” I repeat, giggling.

  “Um… a lot less, efficient? Less efficient than I thought it might be, if you can understand what I mean.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Sebastian, but I see what you’re saying. My home is organised in a less meticulous manner than you had imagined?”

  “No, no, it is definitely organised and perfectly put together… nothing is out of place, that I’ve seen thus far, but I had imagined you to have pristine whites… stainless steel, glass, fully tiled floors…”

  “Okay… so it’s homelier?”

  “Yes. Yes, it really is homely. It reminds me of your place in Aspen a little, warm and welcoming.”

  “Well, the place in Aspen is mine, you know. Didn’t you think that might be my style?”

  “I didn’t actually. I thought you liked the décor in Aspen because it’s in keeping with the warm, cosy feel of a lodge in a ski resort, but I had imagined your home to be very different. It doesn’t look like a ski lodge, of course, but it’s extremely warm.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  My kitchen is white, but it has a shaker feel to it, with rich marble counter tops and thick, white, wooden cupboard doors. The soft rug sits perfectly atop the cream marble flooring, bringing that extra hint of ‘home’ into the room. My wine cooler is probably the only thing with a more modern look to it. Even my stainless steel appliances have been built into cupboards so they match the theme of the room.