Unexpected Daddies

by Lively, R. S.

  "Hello, passengers. Thank you for joining us today on our flight to Boston. We're experiencing a slight delay, but I assure you, we will be on our way soon."

  I crumple forward, resting my head on top of my bag. I did it again. Simply by booking this flight, I had cursed it to be late. This always happens. The logical part of my brain tells me this isn’t true. My perpetual bad luck isn’t powerful enough to detain two planes in one day. And even if it is, chances are someone on the opposite end of the promptness spectrum is on the flight. That should at least balance the scales.

  We sit for a few more minutes before I hear footsteps come up and stop beside me. I turn my head just enough to see a pair of sensible black pumps and shimmer-free pantyhose in the aisle beside me.

  "Piper Ashcroft?"

  I sit up and look at her.

  "Yes? That’s me.”

  "Can you come with me, please?"

  My heart feels like it's stopped. This is like one of those true crime shows. The NSA or CIA or FBI saw that I've traveled to several South American countries in the last year and now they want to detain me in a tiny windowless room and shake me down. I take my bag and stand, scooting sideways out of the seats as I vacillate between being offended at the narrow-mindedness of people, and suddenly suspicious of the man who brought me to the airport in Costa Rica, and was very interested in helping me with my bags.

  "OK," I say when I'm standing behind her.

  I brace myself for whatever's coming next.

  "You've been upgraded!"

  Well. I wasn’t certainly expecting that.

  "What?" I ask.

  "You've been upgraded to First Class for this flight!" she says, her fake cheery voice grating on my ears.

  "Upgraded?"

  "Yes," she repeats slowly. At this point, she must think I am either slow or learned English as a second language. "Come along. Let's get you to your new seat."

  I follow her up the aisle again, feeling the other passengers glaring at me with a new level of disdain. I'm the passenger who can't make it to the flight on time, yet now I'm being escorted through the mysterious curtain to First Class. Maybe this is a way for the universe to redeem itself after punishing me with two delayed flights.

  The smile I've put on fades as I pass through the curtain and the flight attendant stops and gestures at the one empty seat in the cabin. Her pale face is suddenly flushed, making the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out even more. I can see why. Even as she tries to get me to sit down, her eyes are focused on the man sitting by the window. The aggravatingly sexy man with thick, wavy hair and dark, mischievous eyes. The Panty Dangler.

  I look from him to the flight attendant and back again. He grins at me and I shake my head at the flight attendant.

  "This has to be some sort of mistake," I say. "I've never been upgraded in all my years of flying."

  "I arranged it," he says. "You looked like you were having a rough day, so I thought I'd make it a little better."

  It would seem much more innocent if the gleam in his eyes and tone of his voice didn't have an underlying current of suggestion.

  "I appreciate it," I say, "but I can't accept it. It must have been really expensive." I look back at the flight attendant. "If you'll make sure he gets a refund for the difference in tickets, I'll just keep my seat in coach."

  The woman's expression fell slightly.

  "I'm sorry," she says. "That's not possible."

  "Why? I just left."

  "We filled it with a passenger from the waitlist."

  He chuckled. "See? It all worked out."

  One of my least favorite phrases in the world.

  "Miss? If you could please take your seat, it's time for takeoff."

  "Someone else is in my seat."

  "This seat," she says, obviously losing the tiny amount of patience she still had with me.

  I try not to sigh as I sit down and tuck my bag under the seat in front of me. Slamming my seatbelt in place, I keep my eyes focused ahead of me. I notice a lilt in his voice that makes him sound even more pretentious than before.

  "Have you ever traveled First-Class?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Good. Then it will be an experience for you. Hopefully, it will make up for our little crash earlier."

  My eyes slide over to him and meet his expectant gaze. The lively, dark orbs are a beautiful companion to the darkness of his hair.

  "I'm the one who made the mess," I say. "Why are you making it up to me?"

  "I shouldn't have left that cart in the walkway. If I had kept going, you wouldn't have hit it.”

  So that was his cart. At least he hasn’t mentioned the fact that I landed on my ass surrounded by condoms and panties.

  He doesn't say it, but I know he has to be thinking it.

  "Still, you really didn't need to do this. It's too much to do for a stranger."

  The plane starts to move, and I instinctively grip the armrests in response. There's a slight hitch in the plane as it pulls up from the runway, and I draw in a sharp breath.

  "Whoa," he says. "It's OK. We're just taking off. You're fine. Is this your first flight or something?"

  This man is really beginning to frustrate me. Just sitting here, I can tell he's not used to people telling him 'no,’ and it has already started rubbing me the wrong way.

  "No," I tell him, my eyes focused ahead of me again. "As a matter of fact, I fly all the time. I just don't happen to enjoy taking off or landing.”

  "The way you hauled ass down the jetway, I would have thought flying was your favorite thing."

  "I don't particularly like that part, either."

  He laughs.

  "Going down the jetway?"

  "Yes."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't relish the thought of walking down an accordion with a floor. I have this nightmare that it pops free of the plane and spits me out onto the ground instead."

  "That's graphic."

  "And now you understand my reasoning."

  "I said it was graphic. I didn't say I understood it. You do realize those things are designed specifically for people to walk in them."

  "And the Titanic was designed not to sink, and yet we all know how that story turned out."

  "If you hate flying and airports so much, do you do it to yourself as some weird form of self-punishment?"

  I turn and glare at him.

  "No."

  "At least I got you to look at me."

  "Hilarious."

  The conversation drops, and we sit in tense silence as the plane slowly ascends.

  We've been at our target altitude for almost an hour, the plane shaking more than I'm comfortable with, when I glance over at him and out through the window.

  The sky is drastically darker than earlier.

  "Oh god. It looks like a really nasty storm is building out there."

  As if saying it out loud has made the sky need to prove itself, the plane jolts.

  "It's fine," he says again. "Just don't think about it. Think about something else."

  "Like what?"

  "Talk to me."

  "Isn't that what I'm doing?"

  "Talk to me about something else. Ignore the plane."

  The plane shimmies again.

  "What do you want to talk about?"

  "Well, we could start with your name."

  Chapter Two

  Christian

  I can’t help but think the petite brunette sitting beside me is incredibly cute, despite the look on her face that tells me she'd rather parachute out of the plane then sit here any longer. From what I have seen so far, she has a strong and somewhat indelicate personality, but I find her both hilarious and sexy. Her blatant resistance to me I could certainly do without, but there's nothing she can do about sitting next to me for the rest of the flight. She's pushed back so far, but we'll see how she feels by the time we land.

  "Piper," she says. "My name is Piper Ashcroft."
<
br />   "Hello, Piper Ashcroft. My name is Christian."

  As the plane continues to our destination, the storm outside creates even more turbulence and I see Piper cling to the armrests beside her for dear life. The plane gives a particularly hard jump, and Piper's head drops back against the seat.

  "Shit," she mutters again. It seems to be her favorite word. "I'm sure it would have been much nicer to meet you if we weren't in a plane determined to do the fucking conga all the way to Boston."

  Piper is distinctly different from the women I'm used to back home. I find her demeanor refreshing. That's part of the reason I left Cambria in the first place. I know it's not a coincidence that nearly every day, a different eligible woman visited my mother. I know they were actually there to try and catch my eye. Entrap me. Sometimes they traveled in little gaggles. They were lovely, yes. Prim and proper? Naturally. All they represent to me, however, is the life I'm trying to escape. Even if it’s only temporary.

  "So, what makes someone who has such a problem with flying, do it so often?"

  "It's not the flying," Piper insists.

  "Of course, it’s not. Just boarding the plane, taking off, and the landing. Right?"

  "Exactly," she says. "Everything in the middle is usually fine. Unless there's a storm."

  "Sorry I couldn't upgrade the weather for you," I say.

  I mean it as a joke, but Piper doesn't seem amused.

  "My work," she mutters.

  "The weather is your work?" I ask. I can’t help but imagine her in a little tight suit and skirt on television, describing the forecast for next week.

  "No," she says. "That's why I fly so much. I fly for work."

  "What do you do?" I ask.

  "Humanitarian efforts for an international NGO," she says. "Most recently I was deployed in Costa Rica and helped establish sustainable agricultural initiatives in several communities struggling with self-sufficiency. They were also affected by poverty and a lack of reliable food sources. But not anymore."

  She sounds like a Google search result, and I can imagine she's answered this question many times before.

  "What exactly does that mean?" I ask.

  "What?"

  "Sustainable agricultural initiatives," I say.

  "The group I work with teaches members of the community to utilize innovative technology and accessible techniques that work with the environment and natural resources to establish crops and maximize yield. The goal is to make sure these communities have reliable sources of sustainable, nutritious food as well as a potential stream of revenue from selling the crops or turning them into other products they can sell."

  "That sounds pretty amazing."

  She nods.

  "It is," she continues. "It's incredible to see how excited they are to get this opportunity, and how hopeful they are for their future. I work with a lot of women, and many of them either don't have husbands, or their husbands have died, or left them, and they tell me they felt so helpless. They were so worried about being able to take care of themselves and their children. They didn't really have many options. When we get there, we don't just give them things they need. We teach them how to be self-sufficient. It empowers them. All of them. In the relatively short amount of time I get to spend with them, I get to see these people gain a sense of self-worth and confidence in themselves. It changes how they see the world around them. It's truly humbling."

  Her passion is obvious. I'm impressed by her dedication, but there's something about the way she described it that bothers me.

  "How well does something like that pay? It sounds like volunteer work."

  Piper looks at me with disgust in her piercing emerald eyes.

  Oh. I fucked up.

  "It's not about the money for me," she asserted, righteous fury in her voice. "There are other things in this world more important than money."

  Sure, there are, but life is also about indulgence. Hence First Class.

  "I know," I say anyway. "I was only asking because you mentioned it was your work."

  "It is my work. Well, part of it. The agriculture part is technically volunteer work, but it's what allows me to do my real job.”

  "And what's that?"

  Taking advantage of a moment of temporary stillness from the plane, Piper leans forward and grabs her bag from under the seat in front of her. She digs through it and pulls out a camera case. She pulls it out, turns it on and scrolls through a folder of images before turning the screen toward me.

  "What's that?" I ask.

  "The work I do to make money," she replies. "I'm a photojournalist. Magazines and websites pay me to take photos of the places I visit for my humanitarian work and write about them. I see it as another opportunity to help. This way, I get to take pictures that help people appreciate the natural beauty of the areas, but also see the advancements being made so they might be interested in helping. It helps create awareness."

  "That's a lot to do with one little camera."

  "It's not my only one. The rest of my equipment was checked. This is just my favorite. Probably because it was my first."

  "Hmm…" I say.

  "What?"

  Piper's been scrolling through the pictures on the camera, but she pauses to look at me.

  "I was just wondering where all the condoms and lube fit in with all this. I didn't know there were so many freaks in the humanitarian sector."

  Color splashes across her cheeks and Piper puts tremendous focus on getting the camera back into its case, and into her bag.

  "I told you I work with a lot of women. They don't have easy access to things like that, and it makes life a lot fucking harder than you could ever understand. So, I pack those with me and give them out when I find someone who would benefit from them. These women are just trying to survive and make life better for themselves and their families. They shouldn't have to deal with unwanted pregnancies and bad sex while also learning how to grow crops."

  "You're the Sex-Positive Humanitarian. That might be the most badass superhero ever."

  She looks so taken aback by my comment that I can't help but laugh. I drop my head back, a deep laugh booming from my chest. Piper looks horrified at first, but her lips start to twitch. She tries to maintain a look of indignance, but I can see a giggle starting to bubble up.

  Piper finally stops loses her battle and giggles. Damn, she’s cute. Laughing seems to have relaxed her a bit, and I notice her grip on the armrest loosen slightly.

  "What about you?" she finally asks.

  "Yes, I am very sex positive."

  Some of the glare from before returns.

  "I mean, what do you do for a living? Where are you from? I noticed you have a slight accent, but I can’t quite place my finger on it. And I’ve been almost everywhere."

  "I'm on vacation right now," I say. "And it’s my policy to not talk about anything even close to resembling work when I'm on vacation. But I guess it wouldn’t break the rules to tell you that I’m from Cambria. Small European country. Most people have never heard of it."

  It's not exactly the truth. Not telling her about what I do at home has nothing to do with that thin excuse. I'm not even sure what to call this trip. Hopping on a plane and traveling halfway around the world to escape the life-changing responsibilities bearing down on me isn't exactly leisurely. The truth, though, isn't something I feel the compulsion to tell a complete stranger. Especially one as defiant and vocal as Piper. Even if she’s incredibly sexy. Her full lips, and the plush breasts I saw peeking out of her shirt when she was trying to cram everything back in her bag, might be exactly what I need to keep my mind off Cambria.

  "Fair enough," Piper says. "Cambria? I’ve never gotten a chance to visit. I’ve heard it’s lovely though. What are you planning to do all the way in Boston? That’s a long way from home."

  "I have another flight waiting for me," I say. "I'm on my way to California."

  She looks at me strangely.

  "You're on your way to California by w
ay of Atlanta and Boston?"

  "You'd be surprised at how complicated travel can be when you make your plans literally at the last minute."

  "How last minute?" she asks.

  "On the way to the airport."

  "Wow," she says. "That's what I call spontaneous."

  She takes a glass of wine being offered to her by the flight attendant, murmuring her thanks before taking a sip.

  "What about you?" I ask as I take my own glass. "Are you catching another flight once we land?"

  Piper shakes her head.

  "No," she says. "Boston's the end of the line for me. Well, not exactly. It's the end of the line in terms of flying. Once we land, I'll drive to Westover. It's just a couple hours further, but Boston is the closest airport. At least, the closest one I could connect to from Atlanta.”

  "So, you're headed home?" I ask.

  "Yep," she says. "It's been a while since I've really spent any time there. I'm looking forward seeing some people."

  "How long have you been in Costa Rica?"

  "A few months," she responds in a way that makes it seem like being away from home for that long is a fairly common occurrence for her.

  "I bet your mom has missed you."

  Piper shrugs.

  "I mean, she hasn't seen me since I was five, so I can't imagine a few months in Costa Rica, twenty years later, is going to cause much of an emotional breakthrough for her."

  Damn. Another misstep. I try again.

  "Well, then I bet your dad's going to be happy."

  "He died a couple of years back."

  "Wow," I say.

  "Yeah," she says. "You're really nailing the awkward conversation portion of this flight."

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to bring up such sensitive subjects."

  She takes another sip of her wine, and glances into it as if consulting it about her future.

  "You didn't," she says. "My parents got divorced when I was really, really little. I don't even know why. I never asked, and neither of them ever told me. My mother didn't want custody of me, my father did, so we packed up and moved to Westover. It's where my dad grew up, and where most of the family still lived. I only saw my mother once after that, and the only reason that happened was because they never signed the final divorce papers, and she wanted to get married again. I haven't seen or heard from her since."