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Her arm flies out as she gestures around the plane. “Is that not what we’re doing?”
“Working our asses off for Futuro Airlines isnotwhat I mean. I’m talking about ditching the uniforms for a few weeks and really letting our hair down. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“You’ve lost your marbles.” She swats my prodding finger away. “You’ve only been here for three months. Santa Cruz is never going to approve the time.”
José Santa Cruz—our sleazeball supervisor—is notorious for denying vacation time, as well as finding ways to finagle more work for less pay.
“I can be persuasive.”
She snorts before waggling her brows. “Not near as persuasive as the CEO’s wife.”
“No. Way.”
“Caught them together at the company Christmas party last year.” Examining her nails, she says, “Been saving that blackmail for a rainy day, but I suppose you can abuse the information first.”
I laugh as an alarm pings overhead. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
We grab for our seat belts when we hit a rough patch of turbulence and secure them over our laps.
The captain alerts the passengers that the next twenty minutes will be bumpy, and I cringe, remembering the elderly woman still in the bathroom. I donotwant to be tugging her butt out of the toilet bowl when we land.
“Sandy beaches and endless sunshine sound like a great distraction,” I muse.
“From the fact that you’re still living at home with your parents, or that you desperately need to get laid?”
The woman exits the latrine just as a man three seats away from us spits out a bit of water. He covers his eavesdropping with a sputtering cough while I side-eye him, ignoring the saucy remark.
She shivers. “No offense, but your mom is a little intimidating.”
I’ve no doubt she remembers the way Mother snubbed her when they met.
Tattoos are contagious, apparently.
“She means well,” I say, shifting in my seat.
Nancy Goldhart is the epitome of what one would consider a high-society housewife. And marrying a plastic surgeon has its benefits, like being undeniably beautiful with glowing skin and mocha-colored hair that wouldn’t dare come from a box.
People always ask if we’re sisters even though she’s every minute of fifty-four years old. But not even I can deny that I’ve taken after her.
Perfectly put-together Kate. That’s the common perception.
Even now, my thick, dark hair is tucked into a high bun, with eyebrows as skillfully manicured as my nails. Not a hair or lash is out of place above my tightly ironedFuturouniform.
“And what of Mr. Fancy Pants?” she asks of Thad. “I know he wasn’t exactly layin’ it down.”
I snort at the mention of my sex life. “I told Thad I needed a nice long break, which means jumping into another man’s bed is the furthest thing from my mind.”
If she knew about the dating apps I recently downloaded, she’d never leave me alone.
She snickers. “And I suppose you won’t be telling your parents about this spontaneous vacation either.”
“Absolutely not. You know what a prick Doctor Goldhart is. He’s likely to throw all my belongings onto the front porch while my mother strikes a match.”
What a way to bunch her pressed panties.
Cor shimmies in her seat, practically purring with approval. “You sneaky woman.”
The captain’s voice comes over the speaker once more.
