Page 26 of Loched in Love

By the time I’m asking if he’s crazy, we’ve reached the flight attendant who’s looking less than pleased to see him. I grab the back of his shirt and fist it in one hand as I wait to see her reaction.

“Hello, we wish to leave,” he says.

He clears his throat as if what he’s done is a common occurrence while the people who were just forcibly shoved backward bluster.

“Sir, please move to your seat,” she says.

“Security is on the way,” another flight attendant suddenly says into a phone and then reattaches it to the wall.

All the blood leaves my body when I catch a glimpse of the tall male flight attendant behind us that must have come out of the galley after hearing the commotion.

“You need to get to your seats, now,” he says, his lips in a thin hard line.

Fuck.

My heart rate is tripping now that I realize what Lachlan’s done.

“Lachlan, this is bad,” I tell him, trying to convey that this isn’t what’s normal and we are now in trouble.

Usually people who wish to disembark would wait until passengers have boarded the plane before leaving. But now he’s delayed the entire flight and people are pissed and it’s valid.

“I can’t imagine it’s uncommon for anyone to decide against riding in one of these,” he says.

“You’re going to make us miss our flight, asshole,” some dude shouts from outside the plane.

The intercom squeals with static piercing my ears as the pilots begin rattling off orders over the radio to try and calm the wayward passengers trying to onboard.

“I think we’re holding up the gate,” I say hoping Lachlan can somehow hear me over the intensity of the crowd.

Belatedly, I realize now I should have maybe warned him that once we scanned our tickets, we wouldn’t be able to just leave. It’s always difficult getting everyone on and off the plane, almost like we’re packing into a sardine can, not unlike the biscuits he accused the airline of being.

“Sir, causing a disruption in flight is a government offense,” a newcomer says.

And as the flight attendants step aside to let them through, a man wearing a white collared shirt with a tie and a bunch of yellow bars makes their way toward us.

“Shit. That’s the pilot,” I murmur.

The co-pilot with less stripes on his shoulder pads joins the first, but Lachlan seems to loom over them both like a giant; he’s so tall.

“No wonder the planes are so wee and tiny, if the menfolk flying the tin cans are this toaty,” he replies.

The two pilots sputter in outrage, and my face turns beet red as everyone starts arguing. My stomach dips and forms into a tight knot in my middle, and I’m beginning to see real jail time in my future when obviously carrying airline security shows up at the plane doors. And they’re not short men like the pilots.

Shit.

The airline security officers are huge, one is maybe an inch or so taller than Lachlan and don’t look like the kind of men you’d want to meet in a back alley or anywhere unless it involved sheets and a lot of safe words.

“Oh my god,” I breathe when one of them reaches out and touches Lachlan.

“Ciùinich,” Lachlan’s voice booms.

The word seems to expand from his voice like the crack of a whip, and sparks fizz in bright colors of yellow and gold that seem to permeate and dissipate into the air.

Instantly the atmosphere changes, the shimmery haze collecting overhead like a shiny smog within the plane cabin. Everyone calms collectively. A satisfied sigh rises up from someone at the back of the group, and it seems to echo, as if contagious, while everyone from the flight attendants, pilots, and passengers begin to smile at Lachlan.

“What the hell was that?”

“A charm,” Lachlan answers, rubbing my knuckles with his hand lightly.