Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  I head towards the desk and hand over my boarding pass, avoiding further contact with the blonde, and it is with an abundance of relief that I begin to make my way down the tunnel towards the plane.

  Six

  Adriana

  Oh God. He’s on this plane.

  I’m muttering the words to myself as I head through an open door towards a way-too-cheerful flight attendant who’s wearing a tight skirt and perfectly applied makeup. She smells like lavender and chemicals, and she looks at my boarding pass quickly before telling me to walk down the aisle on the left. The whole time her whiter-than-white smile all but blinds me. How can anyone’s teeth be so white? They’re like a freaking night light.

  I hate that I have to walk through First Class to get to my seat. Hate it. It means parading myself by him, while he thumbs his nose at me for being a working class stiff. I hate that he got on the plane so quickly while I had to wait, chewing my lip like it was going out of style.

  I hate…everything.

  You’re going to Paris. Forget about Mr. Sexy; he’s old news. Pull your chin up and keep walking. Independent Adriana is not going to succumb to distress caused by a man she hardly knows.

  It’s true; why the hell should I care what he thinks? I rejected him. I have the power in this non-relationship.

  I make my way down the aisle and sure enough, there he is, comfortably tucked into a cushy seat by the window. He glances up at me as if he could smell me coming. There’s no one in the seat next to his, lucky bastard. He’ll have all the room in the world, while I’m squished in next to someone with the plague who can’t figure out how not to cough on me for the next six hours.

  Mr. Sexy raises one eyebrow, his expression inquisitive and curious, and I smile at him.

  Fuck. Why the hell am I smiling?

  I shove myself along, trying to sprint past him when my bag gets trapped on the corner of someone’s seat. Oh shit, was that a passenger’s head?

  “Sorry,” I mutter as I keep walking. Get away. Get far away.

  Row 12…13…14…Damn, I need to find row 28, and it’s still miles ahead. I want to turn around and see if Mr. Sexy is watching me from behind, but I can’t. Then he’ll know I’m interested. Except I’m not. I have no interest in him, and the good news is that I’ll never see him again.

  There it is at last. Twenty-eight. I glance at my boarding pass. Okay, I’m sitting in seat C, on the aisle. Fine. I can do this. The hard part’s over.

  I shove my backpack under the seat in front of me and squeeze into my own. The two to my right are empty, but I know they won’t be for long; I would never have that kind of luck on a transatlantic flight.

  Sure enough, a woman shows up with a small child in tow after about five seconds. “Excuse me,” she says and I stand up to let them through. “Would you mind switching with my husband?” she asks me. “We couldn’t get seats together, and he’s supposed to be sitting way at the other end of the plane.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I suppose it would be fine…”

  A flight attendant has overheard us and rushes over, eager to reward me for my generosity. “Miss,” she says to me, “There’s a seat up at the front if you’d like it. I’ll show you.”

  “Sure,” I reply, reaching down for my bag. The closer I am to the front of this section the faster I’ll get off the damn plane, anyhow. As long as First Class disembarks before I do, it’s all good.

  “Thank you so much,” says the young mother, shooting me a look that says, “I don’t want to deal with six hours on a plane with a toddler alone.”

  “No problem,” I reply, flashing her a quick smile. I’ve done my duty. Karma will repay me in kind. I have helped a family in need. I am fabulous, and I deserve some kind of amazing reward.

  The flight attendant navigates me through a sea of bodies towards the front of the Economy Class section. I’m looking around, trying to figure out where my new home is, but everything at the front looks occupied.

  “Maybe someone took the seat,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s still free. It hasn’t been sold.”

  Okay, she’s going to pull a magical, invisible airplane chair out of her ass, isn’t she? Because otherwise she’s just lying, and I’m way too tired for lies.

  Dear God. We’ve hit the front of the section now, and she isn’t stopping. She takes me through to First Class, turning to me with a giant, white-toothed smile on her face like she’s just told me I’ve won a million dollars.

  “I bet you didn’t expect this,” she tells me. “It’s your lucky day!” All I can think is Not by him. Not by him. Please.

  “Oh boy!” I respond, my smile coming out as something closer to a snarl.

  Sure enough, she stops right next to the one empty seat in the entire section, the one right next to Mr. Sexy.

  “Ta-da!” the flight attendant exclaims, thrusting her hands at the thing like she’s revealing a new car. She leans forward to whisper in my ear, “Here’s hoping he’s single, right?”

  I give her a quick and incredibly awkward, “Ha ha,” and look around for another empty seat. There’s got to be a better place to spend the next 6 hours of my life.

  But no, of course there isn’t. Nothing. Zip. Zilcho. CRAP.

  The silk-suited demigod is looking up at me, his face a plethora of expressions from “Well, well, isn’t this interesting?” to “I’m going to make your life a living hell.” The worst part is that I don’t blame him for it.

  I shove by bag under the seat again and plop myself down, hunting for the seatbelt.

  “Take your jacket off and make yourself comfortable,” says Mr. Sexy. “This is going to be a long flight.”

  Damn right it is.

  I shoot him a “don’t talk to me” smile, but I do as he suggested. I pull the jacket off and slip it over my legs as if I’m covering myself in some sort of protective armour.

  He doesn’t say anything more for a little while, his eyes focused entirely on his phone. Good. Do that. Pretend I’m not here.

  But then it hits me: remorse, regret, all the R-words that make me want to pour out a jumble of possibly incoherent words to get him to forgive me.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out like an idiot, “I didn’t ask to be put here. I had no idea she was going to pull that.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t ask for anything of the sort,” he says, voice cold, his eyes still locked on that screen. “You haven’t exactly given me the friendliest vibe.”

  “God, I’m sorry about that too,” I say. It’s all pouring out like a freaking waterfall of contrition. “My mother taught me to be wary of strange men in airport bars.”

  He lays the phone in his lap and hits a button so the screen goes dark, and turns my way.

  “Then I should stop being a strange man as soon as possible. Conlon Davies,” he says, extending a hand. “And you are…?”

  “Adriana Stevenson,” I tell him, accepting the handshake. Tingles shoot up my arm the second we touch. Probably a heart attack. But if it is, why do the tingles then continue down to my nether regions?

  “Adriana,” he repeats in that gorgeous accent of his. “Nice to put a name to that face of yours.”

  That face of yours? Is that a compliment or an insult?

  In answer to my questions, Jen’s scolding voice pops into my head. Stop being neurotic. Just relax and enjoy the very fucking handsome man to your right.

  I throw him a tight-lipped smile and lean down to extract my phone from my purse. When I pull back up I notice that his eyes have veered to my chest, so I look down. Oh, fuck, my buttons are half undone, and I must look like I’ve done it on purpose. I quickly drop the phone in my lap and do them up, almost to my collar. I could swear that I hear him let out a tiny moan of sadness.

  Oh, wonderful. Apparently while I was fumbling with buttons, another text from Jen came up, flashing bright on my screen.

  Which is of course facing upwards.

  This time it’s a flamingo.
The guy is wearing a pink bird on his dick, its beak hanging down like it’s about to snag a fish. A small forest of tight-cropped pubes accentuates the pinkness of the thong.

  Just kill me.

  “Another lovely photo, I see,” Conlon says, barely concealing the laugh in his voice.

  I shove the phone into my purse, growling internally at my best friend. I could swear she’s doing this on purpose.

  “My friend Jen’s idea of hilarity,” I tell him. “She’s insane.”

  “I’m not judging,” Conlon says, his eyes locked on my face. For a moment he looks away, then turns back. It seems that he’s a little at a loss for words. Well, good. So am I.

  The plane is taxiing now, slowly pulling towards the runway. I’m not a particular fan of takeoffs or landings, but I try not to let him see the tension in my body as I say a silent prayer that an engine doesn’t explode before we reach Paris.

  “Listen, I’m not a man who chats women up in bars,” he says, even as the engines whir to life and we pick up velocity. “I just wanted to set the record straight.”

  “Okay,” I reply, nervously grabbing the arm rests on either side of my torso.

  “I’m also not the sort to talk about a woman’s breasts like you heard—you see, I was on the phone with my brother—”

  “No?” I say as I feel the plane’s nose lift into the air, “because you sure look like that sort of man.” Okay, maybe that was a little harsh. My nerves are making me snarky.

  He pulls back and stares at me, possibly aghast. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Come on,” I scoff, “the suit, the hair, the…everything. You’ve got it all in spades. And besides, the fact is that you did try to chat me up.” I’m resisting a smile now, laughing as much at myself as at the hilarious innocent expression on his very not innocent face.

  “You’re a judgmental little thing, aren’t you?” he reprimands, but I get the impression that he’s actually a little impressed that I’m standing up to him. “Tell me something. If I told you that you look like the sort of woman who sleeps with all sorts of men, how would you take that?”

  My brows meet in immediate rage, and I’m about to tell him it’s not the same thing.

  But I can’t. He’s right.

  “Poorly.”

  “Men don’t like being judged either, you know. If I look like the sort of man who might proposition you in a bar, it’s only because I…”

  “You…?”

  He lets out a quick breath. “Because I find you particularly alluring. That doesn’t mean that I approach every attractive woman who comes my way.”

  “Fair enough. I apologize for my assumption that you’re a man-slut.” The plane is beginning to stabilize, and apparently so am I.

  “Thank you.” He runs a hand through his thick head of hair. “In my defence, it’s very hard not to move towards something so attractive as yourself.”

  Something starts humming inside me, and I feel my ugly panties try to melt again. Well, that worked. This guy is good. Now my lady bits are betraying me. I can feel you down there, reacting to him like you’re opening up the palace gates and welcoming the King in for his nightly pounding.

  “You’re a charmer,” I tell him, averting my eyes so that I’m not staring straight into his, which are impossibly icy blue in stark contrast to his dark hair. He’s got laugh lines, which affirm his sense of humour. But he also smells like everything that’s ever aroused me. Sex, chocolate, scotch, and even a hint of clean man-sweat. Sitting next to him is like waltzing into a minefield of sexual temptation.

  “I don’t know about charming,” he tells me, leaning in close, “but I’m discerning, and I know a beautiful woman when I see one.”

  I feel his breath on my…left breast. Oh, God, did he do that on purpose? I look down and see that my blouse's damn buttons are undone again. Great. I may as well just yank my camisole down and ask him to blow on my nipples.

  Actually, that would probably be amazing...

  Stop it, Adriana. Stop thinking with your vagina. Resist.

  “See, there’s the charm again,” I reply, my voice tightening as I try not to think about him blowing on my sensitive bits. “Do women actually fall for this sort of talk?”

  He pulls away. I can see that I’ve stung him to the core with that one. “I’m not looking for you to fall for anything,” he says. “Forgive me if you felt manipulated.”

  I grind my jaw as he goes back to staring at his phone. After a moment I turn to him again, remorse eating away at my soul. What is it about this guy that makes me so defensive?

  It’s not him. It’s me. I’m defensive because I’m trying to prove that I won’t let myself be walked over, like Roger did. I’m proactively proving my feminine might.

  It’s possible that I’m overdoing it a little.

  “Look,” I say, “I’m sorry I said that. It’s just that you’re pretty forward, and I don’t know what to make of you. I can’t help but assume that you’re throwing bullshit my way. It’s been a while since I’ve…”

  “Since you’ve what?” he asks, raising just his right brow as he turns my way again. His piercing eyes look through me into my soul, and once again my body reacts, telling my brain to stop being such a little shit. Man, he’s sexy.

  “Since I’ve been flattered by a man.”

  “I’m not into flattery,” he tells me. “I simply wanted to buy you a drink back in the bar, because I was in a foul mood and you looked as though you were in a good one. As for what’s happening now, I’m simply being friendly to a beautiful woman. I’m a busy fellow; there are plenty of other things I could do with my time.”

  “Busy?” I say. “What do you do?” Yes, that’s better. I’ll make small talk. Maybe we can be friends. Can a woman be friends with a man she wants to fuck?

  Sure she can.

  Then she can fuck him.

  Right?

  He sets the phone down again. “I own a tech company,” he replies. Well, that’s the last thing I expected. Mr. Sexy is also Mr. Genius, apparently. “We work on Artificial Intelligence.”

  “Wait—what? You mean robots?”

  “Sort of. Neuroprosthetics, cerebrally controlled limbs, that sort of thing. Essentially we pair people with bits that they’ve lost and help them to live normal lives.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say. “Are you a computer genius or something?”

  “Engineering,” he says, “at least it’s how I started out. But it’s all very dull, really. What do you do, Adriana?”

  Oh, I get groped by my asshole boss, quit my job and now I’m a complete bum hoping to make a living writing Romance novels, even though I have no idea what I’m doing.

  “I…I’m between jobs at the moment. I’m going to Paris for a break from it all.”

  “I see. I’ll ask you more about that in a moment, as I suspect that there’s a story there. Are you staying in a hotel, then?”

  I shake my head. I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell him something vague about my chosen residence for most of the month. It’s not like he’s going to stalk me. “An apartment. An agency set me up with it, as well as this flight. I should remember to write a thank-you note to the founder for the free upgrade to First Class.” I deliberately refrain from mentioning the organization’s name, the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency, because it might make me sound like I’m looking for a Parisian hookup.

  Which of course I’m not.

  Conlon lets out his first real chuckle, which is accompanied by a smile hot enough to melt my jeans off. He has beautiful teeth to match his beautiful everything else. “No,” he says, “I’m the one who should write to them. I wasn’t looking forward to this flight in the least, but now I’m rather excited about what the next several hours may hold.”

  I feel my cheeks go hot, which I know means they’re also bright red. But I don’t give a shit. This guy turns me on, and it’s a nice change from my usual mundane life. This vacation is starting out very, very nic
ely.

  I’ve never had sex with a stranger on a plane before. But I have a sudden, powerful desire to do so.

  Seven

  Conlon

  “And you?” Adriana, the judgmental goddess, asks me. “How did you get into manufacturing robot limbs as a profession?”

  I let out a slow breath, like I’m preparing to leap off a tall building into a very small pool. “Long story,” I say. “Long, long, sordid story.”

  “I like long things,” she replies, a crooked smile on those tasty lips of hers. Well-played innuendo from the saucy little ferret. She’s relaxing, and I like it.

  “I’ll give you the short version, then. My brother Galen has a prosthetic arm. He’s had it since he was a child.”

  “What happened?” she asks, then she bites her lip like she regrets it. Those lip bites of hers will be the end of me. At some point my hard-on will burst through my trousers and, well, I can’t be held responsible for whatever happens after that, can I?

  “It’s all right,” I tell her. “It’s old news, and he’s very laid back about it. It got caught in a bit of machinery at a factory he should never have been visiting. My father’s workplace. They built metal parts for airplanes and the like.”

  “Oh, God,” she says, just as everyone does when they realize what a cluster-fuck my family must be. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. He was young—only eight at the time. It was gruesome but you know what they say about kids. They’re resilient as anything.”

  “I guess so.” She presses her head back against the seat cushion and stares straight ahead, no doubt trying to stomach the imagery of the accident.

  “For years he had a rather awful looking fake left arm,” I tell her. “One may as well have ripped a limb off a store mannequin and attached it to him, for all the good the sodding thing did. The only use it served was to make his jumpers fit better.”

  “Jumpers?” she asks, turning to me again with an inquisitive look on her face. Ah, I see. She wants to familiarize herself with my British tongue. At least I hope she does.