Solange

My grams always used to say that you can tell everything about a man simply by looking at his shoes. If he's wearing sneakers-he's still a man-child. Boots mean he's free spirited as well as…good in bed (and no she wasn't talking about my pops). Dress shoes mean he's marriage material. The nice, reliable type.

Exactly the kind a girl should be on the lookout for. Not that I'm on the lookout. Besides, I don't know a ton of men who'd put up with my busy schedule and constant change of scenery.

The terminal's alive with movement and noise, running footsteps, rolling suitcases, and the constant hum of voices and announcements. I weave through the crowd with practiced ease, my cabin bag tugging at my shoulder. Flight 429 to Colorado is set to board in less than an hour, and I have to be there for the pre-flight checks.

My mind's a whirl of tasks and deadlines, my heels click against the shiny floors, my fingers traveling to my hair to make sure the tight bun is still in place. Stress makes anxiety flutter in my chest and I glance at my watch, cursing under my breath. I overslept and I hate being late, hate being unorganized.

I catch the eyes of the passengers that are about to board, their faces blank, hands wringing in their laps. I know that look. It's that fear of flying, but to be honest I can't relate to it. There's nothing better than the feel of an airplane lifting. It makes me feel light and as if there are endless possibilities ahead of me. I always feel like a dreamer when I'm up in the sky and I don't know how many times I've fantasized about the plane being forced to land in some remote area of the world, where an exotic hunk lays eyes on me then proceeds to do unspeakable things…As I hurry past the shops and kiosks, a sudden commotion catches my attention.

"Stop that thief!" a female voice shrieks.

Whirling around, I lock eyes with a guy, scruffy and dressed in a hoodie, sprinting through the terminal, clutching a small purse. Behind him, an older woman attempts to run after him, her face a mask of fear and frustration. She frantically waves her hand around, yelling for security.

My heart races as the thief dodges through the crowd. I should do something. Stop him. Block him. But I've never been in a physical altercation with anyone and the sheer thought terrifies me, so embarrassingly enough I end up doing nothing. Just as he passes a row of benches, a foot shoots out, tripping him.

The thief stumbles, falling flat on his face and the purse flies from his grasp, landing in a corner. The man who tripped him rises with casual grace, retrieving it. I can only see his back but he has broad shoulders and an air of reassuring authority around him that makes my throat snare. Security comes running, hauling the thief away and the man hands back the purse to the grateful woman.

I swallow at the sight of his face. He's handsome in a way that seems almost unreal—dark hair, chiseled features, pale eyes. Killer jawline. He's dressed in a pair of cream colored pants and a light blue shirt that sets him apart from the other, more disheveled passengers.

"Thank you! Thank you!" I hear the woman cry. "You have no idea what you've just done. That purse has my passport in it!"

"Not a problem," the man smiles, his eyes flickering with amusement, "happy to be of service to pretty, young ladies."

The woman flushes furiously and I hide a smile, knowing that he just made her day with that compliment. She continues to thank him and at one point she rests her hand on his arm and gives his biceps a squeeze. Putting a hand over my mouth, I suppress a laugh but I don't blame her for being giddy. That man-he's movie star material and that's not an exaggeration. I watch him curiously as he sits back down and returns to the book he was reading. He licks a finger, flipping a page and I realize I'm staring.

And not only that…I need to move.

As I pass him by, he surprise me by looking up. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a slow, knowing smile. It sends a shiver down my spine, and I hurry to flash a pale smile back, feeling his gaze follow me with a burning intensity until I round a corner. Those eyes of his might look like glaciers but they've got me all hot and bothered.

The familiar environment of the plane is luckily a comfort, calming me down a bit and I look up when I bump into my colleague Carrie.

"What up with you?" she asks. "Didn't you look in a mirror before you came here?"

"What do you mean?" I say, horrified as I search for my pocket mirror. I hope I don't have a smudge on my face. Hope that's not why that man smiled at me.

"You forgot to blend your blush," she says, thumbing my cheeks and then she frowns. "Oh, my bad. You're just red in the face."

Glaring at her, I lean against the wall and let out a breath. "You know what I love about you?" I pant. "The fact that you have no filter."

"Most people love that about me," Carrie says, fluttering her lashes. "Especially men. And especially in bed…" She swirls her hips around, pretending to swing a lasso and I flush even more furiously.

"Cut that out," I pant, "Someone might see you."

Carrie laughs, brushing me off. "Such a prude," she says with an eye-roll, "you need to loosen up."

I pop a hip out and cross my arms. "Does that mean you'll join me for drinks once we land in Colorado?"

"You're talking to a functioning alcoholic, remember?" Carrie laughs and we both cackle, high-five then look at each other with equally horrified expressions. "I can't believe we just high-fived."

"I know," I sigh. "Let's pretend it didn't happen…" We agree on that and start with the usual tasks: checking emergency equipment, ensuring the galley's stocked, coordinating with the other attendants. The routine helps calm my racing heart, though the image of the man's smile lingers in my mind.

He was wearing dress-shoes.If grams was here, she'd tell me to go get him, Tiger. A smile curls my lips but I shrug, then take a deep breath in order to get a grip. That man is going to be on this flight. Which means that I'm going to tend to him.

I brush a couple of hair strands off my face, clearing my throat.The gate agent announces the start of boarding, and I take my place at the door, ready to greet passengers and check their passports. The steady stream of people begin, each one a blur of faces and documents.

And then he finally arrives, making me childishly giddy.

He hands me his passport with that same mild, warm smile and his hands are masculine but beautiful enough to be painted by an artist. My fingers accidentally brush his as I take it, and I feel a spark of electricity at the contact. The name inside reads "Asher Jenkins."He's thirty years old, his birthplace New York.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Jenkins," I say, my voice professional despite the flutter in my chest.

The man gives a nod in thanks, his eyes flickering with open interest. He holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then moves past me into the cabin.

I watch him go sit in first class, a strange mix of pungent emotions settling in my stomach. He's kind enough to help the other passengers with their luggage and my heart warms. It feels good to see decent people doing good deeds and I just knew when I saw him that he's a sweetheart. There's something about him that spoke to me the moment I looked into his eyes, as if something was deciphered inside of me. Something I didn't even know had to be deciphered.

But I can't think about that now. I have a job to do, and I force myself to focus.

I turn my head around again, only to see Carrie peering at me. My throat snares. "What?" I ask, raising a brow.

"Oh shut up, don't act innocent," she chuckles. "You totally want to bone Hollywood."

"Do not," I protest lamely but it only makes her laugh even more.

"Yes you do. And Hollywood definitely wants to bone you."

"No, he doesn't!" I hiss, clenching my fist, worried that someone will hear but I know I'm protesting a little too fiercely.

"He was undressing you with his eyes." Carrie nods at the man. "I bet you're probably naked, on your knees with something big in your mouth by now."

"Will you stop," I groan, but feel a flutter in my lower belly. "You're embarrassing me."

Chuckling, Carrie shrugs. "Look, all I'm saying is that I'll keep my lips sealed in case you two want to have a quickie in the toilets."

I swat at Carrie, shaking my head and close the door of the airplane. When it's time to perform the safety demonstrations, I go to stand in the middle of the aisle and go through the security routines, explaining the emergency exits etc. Most passengers can't be bothered to listen, some of them already snoring with their sleep masks on. Only one is paying attention.

Mr. Jenkins.

He has the window seat but his face is lifted as if he's hanging onto every words. I can feel his eyes on me, and they feel like a constant pressure that I can't ignore. He doesn't blink when he looks at me and I'm only vaguely aware of the words coming out of my mouth.

I could be saying anything right now…and if he keeps watching me like that then I'll be surprised if my dignity is still intact at the end of this flight. He screams power. The kind of power that can be used to make people do whatever he wants. I better be careful around him.

Once the plane is in the air, it's time to serve the passengers. I make my way down the aisle, offering drinks and snacks. When I reach Asher's seat, he looks up at me, his eyes meeting mine with a force that makes my breath catch.

"Coffee, tea?" I breathe, sounding like a deflating balloon.

"Tea," he says, his voice soothing, reassuring. People trust a voice like that in times of crisis. I wouldn't be surprised if people are willing to follow him in the dark, trusting he won't lead them off a cliff.

"Of course," I smile. "Sugar, milk?"

"Both," he replies, and it's pretty refreshing that he's not one of those I only eat rice and chicken breasts kind of guys, even though he certainly has the look. He takes the paper cup from me, our fingers brushing and I bite down on my lip to not let out a pant.

I think he did that on purpose. And then he gives me a sly smile, that confirms my suspicions. Flustered, I stumble back. At twenty-one I'm a grown woman, not a ditzy teen. But he makes me feel like a ditzy teen. I look back at him, then turn red in the face when he catches my eyes, his smile widening.

He can probably tell that I'm interested and I'm being so inappropriate right now. As I move on to the next passenger, I sense his eyes on me, a heat that seems to follow my every step. I feel like I'm burning up, spice running through my veins and I've never had the problem with the lack of fresh oxygen in the planes but suddenly I do.