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"New woman, huh?" I reply, unable to resist the urge to tease him.
"Yeah, I think she might be the one," he texts back.
I roll my eyes, the bitterness of past betrayals rising up to meet me. "There's no such thing as 'the one', Rylan. Trust me, I learned that the hard way."
“You’re jaded. Give love a try. It’s wonderful.”
I was jaded. It was a love hangover from my early twenties. I thought I had found the one. Unfortunately, the only thing I found was the one who shattered my trust and left me with a lingering sense of cynicism. It's a wound that still hasn't fully healed, despite the passing years.
Feeling like an old man going to bed before the sun is down, I put my phone on the charger and climb into bed. I need a couple hours of sleep. Late-night flights aren't unusual for me, but they usually come with some advance warning. This last-minute request throws off my rhythm, but duty calls.
I've been with the private jet charter company for a few years now, and I've earned a reputation as one of the best pilots on the roster. Clients often request me by name, knowing they'll get a smooth ride and a professional experience. I typically fly CEO’s and their teams or Hollywood types and their entourages. I enjoy my job. I love to fly. I love to impress clients with my smooth landings and flights that are just as smooth.
My alarm goes off at midnight and I’m up. I quickly toss a few things in my go bag, grab a shower and brush my teeth out. My coffee maker is already going when I walk out of the bathroom. I fill my to-go cup, dump in a healthy amount of sugar and give it a quick stir. This is the good thing about being single with no pets, plants or plans. I turn off the lights and head out. Two o’clock in the morning in Los Angeles on a summer night is still bustling with activity. I navigate the familiar streets to the airport, the city lights blurring into a neon haze as I drive.
I arrive at the airport with time to spare, greeting the working the counter with a nod. I despised tardiness.
“The client would like to leave early if possible,” he says.
I look around the empty lobby and see her. A single passenger is waiting for me, wearing oversized sunglasses that seem out of place inside. She’s wearing a jacket, which is a little odd given the warmth of the night. The woman is petite—tiny. She looks like she wants to disappear. I know someone trying to be invisible. The jacket she’s wearing, and the sunglasses do little to conceal the air of nervousness that surrounds her. I can tell she's worried about something. She looks as if she’s expecting trouble to jump out at her any second. Despite her attempts at blending in, she sticks out like a sore thumb in her current state of anxious disarray.
Not to mention, she’s the only client in the lobby.
I raise an eyebrow but say nothing, accustomed to the eccentricities of the rich and famous.
I turn back to look at the man. “Has the preflight been done?”
“Of course.”
“Then we’ll be wheels up in ten.”
“I’ll adjust the log,” he says, already typing on the keyboard.
I walk over to the woman, surprised she doesn’t have a bunch of people with her. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can never tell, especially with the sunglasses covering half her face. All I can see is forehead and lips. She’s pretty. She has the look of a pampered woman. Anyone willing to pay double for a flight in the middle of the night is obviously pampered.
"Good evening, I'm Hunter," I introduce myself, extending a hand in greeting.
“Lily,” she murmurs.
“I’ll be your pilot tonight,” I say. “I understand you’d like to take off a little earlier.”
“Yes.”
"We'll be wheels up in ten minutes."
She nods, her expression hidden behind the dark lenses. I can't help but find it amusing that she's attempting to disguise herself, as if me, the security guard or the guy behind the counter would attempt to identify her. As if anyone cares. Like she’s the only VIP client we’ve ever had in our little business. But I've learned not to judge, especially when it comes to the whims of the elite.
“Thank you,” she replies coolly.
“Why don’t you let me take your bag and—”
“No.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“No,” she says again more firmly. “I’ll keep it with me.”
That sends off alarm bells. This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve had some rock stars try to take all their happy pills on my plane. “Just so you know, if there’s anything illegal in that bag, I’m not letting you on my plane. You might now have to go through security, but that doesn’t mean I’m flying a bunch of crap across state lines.”
