Two full days and still no call, text, any sort of contact from him.
Trust me. I’d checked. With the way my senses were attuned to my phone, it might as well have been a bomb waiting to go off inside my pocket.
I kind of hated how consumed my brain was with the guy I’d spent only a few real hours with.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, though.
Quinn Bailey wasn’t some normal, average guy. He was freaking famous, and from what I’d seen on Google, there were hordes of female—and male—fans who professed their undying love to him on a daily basis. Some of them even proposed marriage through social media and blog posts.
But you’re definitely disappointed…
Silently, I reminded myself the lack of contact was just confirmation of what I’d already known the instant I saw a crowd of people standing outside the train station waiting for photo ops and autographs from the man I hadn’t realized was a football superhero.
He was a certified celebrity, and sports fans looked at him as if he were an actual god.
And let’s face it, I was a mere mortal.
Gods didn’t mess around with mortals.
Despite my better judgment, I looked down at my phone for what was probably the one millionth time in the past forty-eight hours, and every time, with the sole purpose of checking to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.
Still nothing.
Get ahold of yourself, Cat. This is starting to smell a lot like desperation…
All of this preoccupation was starting to make me feel a bit crazy.
I mean, he wasn’t Joe Schmo off the street.
He was Quinn Bailey, a flipping professional athlete, an NFL quarterback. You know, the guy that everyone loved, the one who threw the ball and made the home runs… Or is it baskets? Field goals? Touchdowns?
Touchdowns. That’s what it was.
He was the guy who threw the fucking touchdowns.
Obviously, I was completely clueless when it came to sports, but my internet resources told me he was a big fucking deal.
And he played for the New York Mavericks. They were a freaking dynasty, the kind of team you couldn’t go out in public without seeing people sporting their merchandise—hats, T-shirts, phone cases…it was an endless list.
I slid my phone into my jacket pocket and forced my focus to the tasks at hand—my job. I had another round of New York to Birmingham and Birmingham to New York flights to complete.
To the tune of Rhianna singing work work work work work in my head, I stepped into the galley kitchen and prepared coffee. Once I’d filled the machine and set it to brew, my eyes met the main doors of the plane. A line of people, holding their various versions of carry-ons, had already started to file in as Casey greeted them on board with a smile.
Before I knew it, first class was filled to the brim, every seat holding an expectant occupant. Seeing as this was one of my usual flights, more than a few of the faces were familiar.
Row three, seat B: Older gentleman in a fitted navy suit and gray hair, otherwise known as one of our biweekly regulars, Mr. Phillip Johnson.
Word on the street said he was a multimillionaire who ran an investment firm. From what I’d gathered over the last few months, his family was in Birmingham, and his company’s headquarters were located in the prestigious Financial District of New York.
Mary Jane Matthews filled the spot in row six, seat C. She rode this flight weekly. Apparently, she was an up-and-coming, twentysomething vlogger on YouTube.
Why she needed flights to and from Birmingham was still a mystery I was trying to solve, though. Not to mention, how in the hell she kept her eyebrows so perfect. Every flight, homegirl’s eyebrows were never anything less than on fleek.
I had found out that her vlogs were directed toward fashion, and one overnight in Birmingham last month, Casey and I had sat in our hotel room and watched no less than fifty videos on her channel.
Fingers crossed MaryJaneFashion posts a tutorial on eyebrows soon.
Quickly, I glanced at my watch and noted the time. 5:55 p.m.
Shit. We’d be wheels up and in full takeoff mode in less than ten minutes. I had to finish my preflight prep or else both Casey and Nikki would kick my ass once they realized our onboard service of drinks, cocktails, and snacks was about thirty minutes behind schedule.
Time was of the essence when you were a flight attendant, which meant I didn’t have the luxury of sitting around and daydreaming about the New York Mavericks’ quarterback calling me or taking inventory of flight regulars.
I had shit to do, two flight attendant buddies to keep from strangling me, and a whole plane full of passengers to keep happy. You hadn’t seen pissed off until you were 30,000 feet in the skies, and your passengers realized you forgot to stock the cart with cookies.
During my first thirty days on the job, I’d let that happen once, and the overall response had been pretty close to a riot.
As I restocked my cart with cans of soda and juice, I glanced toward the back of the plane to see Nikki doing the same with her cart in the coach galley, and Casey assisting passengers with their luggage into the overhead bins.
Thankfully, tonight’s flight would be our regular crew—Captain Billy, Co-Captain Lori, Nikki, Casey, and myself. Over the past few months, we’d found a good flow of getting down to business and always finding time to make the job fun—aka screw around and be a little goofy, and maybe even slightly unprofessional, without pissing off the passengers.
It was a necessary mix when you were faced with a grueling flight schedule.
And, this round, we were facing arduous head on.
I preferred my Birmingham flights to bring me straight back to New York the same day. This round, I had no such luck. I’d be stuck with an overnight in Alabama and then faced a 6:30 a.m. flight back to New York the next morning.
It was no wonder my first priority of preflight prep was coffee. To hell with the passengers, caffeine was my sweet nectar for survival.
“Ready for final checks, Cat?” Captain Billy asked as he peeked out the cockpit door, and I moved my gaze toward the other end of the plane again.
Casey assisted the last two rows of coach into their seats, and Nikki appeared all set with her cart in the back galley.
“It looks like Nikki and Casey are about two minutes away from being ready.”
“And you?” Captain Billy asked with a knowing, hearty chuckle that appeared to come straight from his toes.
“Are you trying to say I’m running behind schedule?”
He was always a jokester, and his salt-and-pepper beard moved as his lips crested into a giant grin. “I’m just ascertaining if you would like me to give you a few extra minutes, which I could manage since we’ll have to taxi on the runway for about three minutes.”
“No extra minutes,” I said as I shut the bottom drawer of my cart and flashed him a victorious smile. “I’m all set to start final checks.”
“Perfect.” With one hand resting on the cockpit door, he adjusted the navy tie of his pilot’s uniform and gave a little nod of approval. “Intercom us when final checks are done,” he added before shutting the door closed behind him.
I grabbed the beige phone from the holder. “Begin final checks,” I announced, and Casey nodded toward me, while Nikki started going aisle by aisle to check for seat belts and make sure all belongings were stored underneath seats or in overhead bins.
I did the same, starting in first class, and by the time we met in the middle, she asked, “We good?”
I nodded, and Nikki gave Casey a thumbs-up toward the back of the plane.
“Aye, aye, Captain! Final checks are good to go!” he gladly announced into the beige phone he’d pulled away from the wall.
“Copy that,” Billy responded through the overhead speakers with a soft, amused chortle leaving his lips and crackling through the speakers. “Good evening, folks, this is your captain speaking. I’d like to be the first to welcome you aboard RoyalAir Flight 2107 to Birmingham. We’ll only have to taxi down the runway for a few quick minutes and should be wheels up toward Alabama in no time. Flight attendants stand by for departure.”
“Girl, I call dibs on safety,” Casey whispered to me as he grabbed the needed props from the first-class galley cabinet.
I rolled my eyes and laughed at the same time.
“I’m convinced one day you’ll leave RoyalAir for Broadway.”
He clasped his hands together like he was praying. “Please, God, listen to Cat.”
Always the drama queen, Casey loved putting on a show.
A giggle escaped my lips. “I call dibs on not being your assistant-slash-demonstrator.”
He grabbed the beige phone again. “Nikki, we need you front and center,” he announced and then tossed a wink in my direction.
I could hear her answering sigh from the back of the plane.
I hear ya, girl, but I had to deal with Casey’s happy, comedic ass last flight.
Her hazel eyes met mine, and a few faint wrinkles formed between her brow as she glared directly at me. Long, wavy hair, sparkling eyes, and a figure that showed she actually went to the gym, Nikki was as pretty as she was likable.
Happily married and with two college-aged sons, Nik was much further into her life than I was, but somehow, we’d instantly become friends during RoyalAir training in Cincinnati.
Her life, her wisdom, were always a much-needed change of pace for me.
I liked that she’d been with her husband for thirty years, especially when she often shared funny anecdotes of what it was like to be married to Mr. Marty Miller—notorious karaoke lover and owner of seven hundred pairs of socks that all managed to have holes in them.
I liked that her two sons drove her crazy with their antics.
And I loved that she was my friend.
“Sorry,” I mouthed toward her, but she was having no part of my silent apology for forcing her to participate in Casey’s safety show.
She shook her head in response, her auburn hair brushing across her shoulders as she did. “Liar,” she mouthed back with her red-painted lips and a quirk of her brow.
All I could do was shrug one shoulder in response, while guilt in the form of amusement crested my lips at the corners.
“Hello.” The overhead speakers crackled as Casey geared up for his big performance.
I wondered if he’d eventually find some way to add a tap dance and Barbra Streisand ballad into the routine.
“My name is Casey,” he announced giddily as Nikki walked up toward the front of the plane and snatched the props from his hands. “I’d like to welcome you to RoyalAir Flight 2107. If you’re going to Birmingham, you’re in the right place. If you’re not going to Birmingham, you’re about to have a really long evening…”
It didn’t take long for me to tune him out. I’d heard this safety spiel so many times, I could probably recite it in my sleep.
It also didn’t take long for me to grab my phone out of my pocket to check for missed calls or texts.
I was pathetic.
And yet, still nothing.
My gut clenched in disappointment, and I had the irrational urge to punch myself in my own stomach just to knock that unwanted feeling loose.
I didn’t want to be disappointed. I wanted to be rational.
Yeah, but none of that works when you really, really want him to call you…
With a frustrated exhale, I started to slide my phone back into my jacket pocket, but when it began vibrating like crazy in my hand, I practically jumped out of my heels and fumbled to bring it back in front of my face.
A soft gasp escaped my lungs, and my eyes popped wide and surprised when I saw the notification flashing on the screen. Incoming FaceTime Call: Quinn Bailey.
Holy hell, he’s calling me? He’s really calling me right now?
My heart jumped into my throat, but then took a nose dive to my feet when I realized he wasn’t just calling me, he was FaceTiming me…
As in, he wanted to see my face during the call.
Nerves vibrated inside of my belly until they extended their path and reached my fingertips. My hand shook as I gripped the phone in my palm.
Quinn wanted to video chat with me? Right now?
This has to be a mistake.
Who in their right mind chose FaceTime as their first form of contact?
Definitely had to be a mistake.
As Casey started to talk about oxygen masks, I quickly tapped decline with my index finger.
But only five seconds passed before another round of vibrating came from my phone.
I looked at the screen again, only to see the same notification popping up.
Incoming FaceTime Call: Quinn Bailey.
I tried to solve this complicated puzzle of confusion in my brain, but the only thing I could come up with was Quinn Bailey was accidentally butt-dialing me.
I hit decline again and decided to get some balls and send him a text message.
Me: I think you keep accidentally FaceTiming me…
An answering text vibrated my phone a moment later.
Quinn: Take out the word “accidentally.”
And then another one followed before I could respond.
Quinn: Wait…are you declining my calls?
Holy moly. He wasn’t butt-dialing me?
Me: You’re calling me on purpose?
Quinn: Isn’t that what people do when they meet someone they like?
He likes me? Quinn Bailey likes me? Hold the fucking phone.
Wait. I was holding the phone. Literally. How in the hell was I supposed to respond to that?
I’m so happy you called! I like you too! I want to see you naked! Let’s be naked together!
Obviously, my brain was no use.
I stared down at the blinking cursor of my text message screen and decided to take a nearly honest approach, sans the ramble about being naked.
Me: Okay. Yeah. The call makes sense. But the fact that it’s a FaceTime VIDEO call is a little weird…
Quinn: You calling me weird, Kitty Cat? And you still didn’t answer why you’re declining my calls…
Kitty Cat. Why did that stupid nickname make me smile?
I should’ve been annoyed. But I wasn’t.
I was giddier than Casey during flight safety instructions announcements.
Me: Yeah, I guess I am calling you a little weird. ;) And I’m declining because I’m at work.
Quinn: That’s not why you’re declining…
He had me there. I could’ve easily taken a quick call, but internally, I was way too nervous to FaceTime with him. A girl needed a moment to check her makeup in the mirror, maybe brush out her hair, for something like that.
A phone call was one thing. It still allowed you to hide a little, show only as much to someone as you wanted, but having a camera in front of your face during a call was a whole different animal. The very idea of it made me feel a little too vulnerable.
Me: I really am at work.
I snapped a quick photo of my jump seat, the words RoyalAir embroidered into the cushion, and a thumbs-up from yours truly in the center of the photo.
I added the question See? and sent it to him.
Quinn: Okay…I guess I’ll take that excuse, but I’m going to make sure we talk later. :)
Yes, please!
Oh, wait. What did he mean by later? My schedule wasn’t exactly conducive to flexibility until tomorrow night when I got back home.
Uncertainty vibrated in my stomach. What if he called when I was in the air?
I didn’t want him to think I was ignoring his calls, when in reality, I was in the air and my phone was off.
Me: Later sounds good. :) Just to give you a heads-up, I’m on a flight to Birmingham right now. And tomorrow, I’ll be flying back to NYC on the 8:15 a.m. flight.
I read my text after I’d hit send. Had my words made me sound desperate?
Fuck, I hoped not.
God, why can’t I be one of those smooth, cool as a cucumber kind of girls?
It really would’ve made my life a lot easier.
Quinn: Don’t worry, Kitty Cat. I’ll make sure it happens. ;)
A grin formed across my lips after reading his words, but then realization quickly set in. What exactly did he mean by that? So, like, maybe tomorrow night he’d call me?
Obviously, if he tried the FaceTime thing again, I’d answer, but I’d cover my camera and force his version of appropriate first calls to audio. I mean, who in the hell chooses video calls before knowing someone for more than six months minimum?
Apparently, Quinn Bailey.
I smiled at the thought.
He was a conundrum of confident and humble. A gentleman to his core, but a first-class flirt at the same time. He was a freaking puzzle.
But hell if I didn’t want to solve him like my own personal Rubik’s Cube.