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“If you need anything, just press this here, and we’ll be at your service,” my stewardess says, her smile fading as she makes her way back to cattle class.
And me?
I’m waiting for Ms. De-whatever she’s called to turn up and turn me outta my seat like I was trying to do to the other guy just now.
But the gentle hum of first class is the only thing I hear before the captain announces we’re taking off.
Ten minutes later, there’s no way the real Ms. De Laurent is getting her seat back, and I have two hours of first-class bliss ahead of me.
Once I’ve forgotten about the ugly boarding incident, I almost convince myself I could get used to this sort of thing.
Oohing and ahhing to myself once I unload all the complimentary swag courtesy of the airline, I’m interrupted only by a first-class stewardess who’s brought hot face towels and some orange juice.
“We’re very sorry for the confusion, Ms. De Laurent,” she says in a low, almost smoky voice, and I can feel my face reddening again.
Lying isn’t something I’ve been brought up to do, but nobody’s suggested I’m anyone else, so….
“That’s okay,” I squeak, fidgeting with my hot towel, which I discover is actually really hot.
“It’s just –,” the stewardess continues, leaning closer as she almost whispers it. “We didn’t want to make a bad impression…with Condor,” she says knowingly, creasing another apologetic smile.
“With Condor…,” I echo back to her, wondering what the hell she’s talking about.
“If there’s anything at all we can do, just let me know,” she promises. And as quickly as she appeared, the stewardess was gone, and I was alone again.
Her Condor reference stumped me until I spy the in-flight magazine. There was a pile of things for a passenger to get through during a flight. Condor Hotels was on the front of a magazine.
They obviously have a deal going with the airline, with the whole magazine showing off just how great the luxury hotel chain is. And how my next first-class flight would qualify me for a single night’s free accommodation. Terms and conditions apply.
But something tells me that whoever I’m supposed to be isn’t just another first-class traveler.
As intriguing as it is, I have to put it to the back of my mind.
Just get home, and get off the plane before they stiff you with the bill for first-class….
But something does bring me back to that magazine. And more than just once.
It’s not the glossy cover or the smell of expensive printing either.
Between my hot towel, juice, and then a three-course lunch that looks and tastes like it came from a world-class restaurant, I glance at it absently at first.
But by the time we’re coming in to land, I’ve dog-eared the page and feel like I’ve put holes in it. I’ve been staring at it so hard.
Staring at him. Xander Alexander. Global Manager of Condor Hotels.
That’s what the title under the photo of him behind a huge mahogany desk tells me.
The office wall behind him is lined with leather-bound books and framed photos of him shaking hands with some of the most influential and well-known people on the planet.
It’s not all for show either. He’s the face of Condor Hotels, and they have an image to uphold. An image that the airline most likely wants a share of too.
The whole magazine is an ad for both, but just seeing him in there makes me feel…special.
I guess they want every guest to feel the same.
What better way to do that than by having the hottest man alive as your manager slash poster boy? But he’s no boy. I can see that.
The man’s eyes and yearning look are telling me a lot more. His naturally perfect smile shines through from a mouth I could kiss for a year and never come up for air from.
His smooth complexion is wrinkle-free, set in proportion to his chiseled jawline.
Even though he has a little silver at the sides of his thick, dark hair, his penetrating brown eyes shine with a power, an aura of a man who knows what he wants.
But there is a hint of sadness in his stare – longing even.
A look I’ve seen staring back at me plenty of times in my own mirror, the look of someone who knows there’s more than flying solo.
But is he single? A man like that would’ve been snapped up years ago.
I mean, even through what I can see of his suit in this photo, he’s built like a linebacker.
His muscular frame is highlighted by the hand-tailored, European class that makes ordinary clothes seem like rags.
Diamond cufflinks and an equally but tastefully expensive watch do nothing to detract from the power of the huge hands he has folded in front of him.
The man oozes confidence, and apart from spiking my blood pressure, I half wonder if I don’t need the bathroom or something more intense down there to calm me down.
