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"Let her look," Kate breathes out defiantly, though her body tenses slightly. "She's just doing her job, making sure I don't lose mine over some handsome flyboy."
"Hey now," I chuckle softly, my thumb stroking her arm. "No need to lump me with the usual riffraff. This flyboy's flying high on something more than just jet fuel."
Kate's laughter is a melody that dances through the thick air of the lounge, light and clear. But the sound seems to tighten Marilyn's scrutiny, her eyes narrowing a fraction more, etching lines of concern—or is it disapproval?—across her forehead.
"Should I wave?" I quip quietly, resisting the urge to throw a cheeky salute Marilyn's way.
"Better not," Kate says, sitting up straighter. "Marilyn's got that 'we need to talk' look, and trust me, it's never about the weather."
"Understood." I give a mental shrug. There's nothing I can do about Marilyn's watchful presence, except maybe prove that I'm not the villain she's painted me to be in her head. "But just for the record, I'd brave any storm for you."
Kate's smile is my reward, a burst of sunlight through the clouds of travel fatigue and wary assistants.
The warmth of her hand in mine is a silent promise, an anchor in the storm of flashing cameras and endless skyways. But then Kate's smile dims, just a tad, eyes flicking past my shoulder.
"Be right back," she whispers, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before slipping away toward the restroom.
My gaze lingers on her retreating form, the gentle sway that's all grace and starlight. That's when Marilyn Lancaster makes her move. She strides over with an air of determined displeasure, as if approaching a turbulence she’s intent on smoothing over.
"Ben Caldwell," she says, her voice cool and clipped like the edge of a wing cutting through clouds. "Mind if we have a little chat?"
"Of course not, Marilyn," I say, sitting up, trying for casual despite knowing this is anything but. I can handle crosswinds, but this woman? She's a whole different kind of headwind.
She stops a foot away, arms folded, her stance as firm as her tone. "Let's cut through the fog, shall we? Are you just a high-flying fling? Or do you actually see something real with Kate?"
Marilyn's question hangs heavy between us, demanding a descent into territory I'm more than willing to navigate. Because with Kate? It's never been about the fleeting thrill of the takeoff—it's the steady course toward something enduring that has me hooked.
I blink, momentarily thrown off by the sharpness in Marilyn's inquiry. But as a pilot, I'm trained to handle surprises with grace. So I lean into the honesty that's become second nature when it comes to Kate.
"Listen, Marilyn," I start, my voice steady despite the unexpected altitude of our conversation. "I know you're looking out for her, and that's respectable. But what I feel for Kate...it's as genuine as it gets. I'm not here for some fleeting layover. She's got my heart doing barrel rolls, and I'd never do anything to cause her pain."
Marilyn's eyes narrow, drilling into me like she's got X-ray vision, searching for cracks in my fuselage. She crosses her arms tighter across her chest, a human anti-aircraft missile ready to shoot down any bullshit flying her way.
"Ben," she says, every syllable a measured beat, "I've seen charmers like you. You talk a good flight plan, but can you actually stick the landing?"
I meet her gaze, unflinching. There's a storm brewing in those eyes of hers, but I'm not about to divert course. "I'm not just another transient jet stream in her life, Marilyn. I'm in this for the long haul. Trust me, I'm not in the business of crash landings—especially when it comes to something as precious as Kate's heart."
The tension between us thickens, almost palpable, like a heavy fog settling over the runway, challenging visibility. But there's no mistaking the protective fire in Marilyn's stare, or the serious throttle behind her words. She's a fortress, guarding the gates to Kate's world, and I realize I've got my work cut out for me if I want to prove I'm more than just a passing flight.
"Listen, Ben," Marilyn continues without preamble, her voice low but sharp enough to slice through the ambient hum of the private lounge. "I know you think you've got this all figured out, but you're playing with fire here. Kate's not just any girl. She's a brand, a public figure. Every move she makes is under a microscope."
I shift uncomfortably on the plush couch, my gut twisting. I'm not used to being on the defensive, especially not when I'm usually the one in control up in the cockpit. "I get that, Marilyn. But?—"
She cuts me off with a chop of her hand through the air, as though she's clearing smoke from a cabin. "You say you care for her, fine. But if this goes south, it's not just awkward brunches you'll be dealing with. Think about the headlines, the paparazzi...They'll tear her apart and question every choice she's made. Can you handle that? Because if you screw up, it's not just your heart on the line—it's her entire career."
Her words are like ice water down my spine, but I can't let doubt creep in now. Not when I finally have something real. "Marilyn, I swear—I wouldn't do anything to put Kate in the line of fire. This isn't some fling for me. I'm serious about her."
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, frustration boiling over. It's like arguing with a headwind—you don't get anywhere fast. "Our love is solid, and if that means taking on the media circus, then so be it. We'll navigate it together. I'm a pretty damn good pilot, remember?"
"Being a good pilot doesn't give you immunity from the tabloids, Ben." Marilyn's gaze doesn't waver, but I can see the gears turning behind those guarded eyes.
"Maybe not," I concede, my hands clenching into fists. "But I'd fly through a thousand storms if it meant protecting her."
Marilyn's posture deflates ever so slightly, like the release of a breath held too long. The steel in her eyes melts into something warmer, more human.
"Ben," she starts, and I notice the slightest tremble in her voice, "you have to understand, Kate isn't just someone I work for. She's...she's like a sister to me." Her arms uncross, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. "I've seen people come and go, leaving their share of scars. Men want to date her, girls want to be her friend, but not for her—for the fame and perks that come with her. And then Kate ends up having to pick up the pieces. And I'll be damned if I let that happen again. Not on my watch."
It's rare to see Marilyn stripped of her armor, her loyalty laid bare like this. It guts me, because I know that fierce protectiveness mirrors my own.
