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Authors: Jessica Brody
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knew what it was really used for.
But, I must admit, being able to decipher men as fast as a cryptologist breaks top-secret codes can definitely come in handy when you're expected to encounter a different man every night as his supposed dream girl.
Andrew Thompson lived in San Francisco with his wife, but tonight he was in Los Angeles for business, staying at the Westin by the airport. I asked the valet at the hotel to escort me quietly to the back entrance of the building, discreetly slipping him a large bill to encourage compliance. He gladly accepted it and walked me around the side to a small, unadorned glass door that he respectfully held open for me. Pulling my black suitcase behind me, I located an empty public restroom on the ground floor and made my way into the handicap stall at the end of the row. I quickly shed my clothes and pulled out my flight attendant's uniform from the suitcase.
It actually belonged to a friend of mine who really was a flight attendant for Continental Airlines. I had explained to her that I was going to a fantasy-themed party where you were supposed to come dressed as a popular sexual fantasy. I told her that I wanted to dress up as an active member of the "mile-high club" and hoped that the flight attendant garb would properly communicate that.
She giggled at the idea and readily agreed to let me borrow it.
I zipped up the navy-colored skirt around my waist and pulled the matching jacket over my shoulders, adjusting the gold wings that were pinned to the lapel. I then slipped my Birkin into the suitcase and replaced it with a simpler black shoulder bag. Much more representative of a flight attendant's salary.
I fixed my hair and touched up my makeup in the bathroom mirror and then took a deep breath before opening the door.
Andrew Thompson was believed to be at the hotel bar, watching the college football game. Because, according to his wife, "he never misses it."
USC versus Michigan. Andrew's alma mater, and, coincidentally, tonight... Ashlyn's as well.
I didn't have the luxury of being able to scope out the bar and locate the subject before entering. I had to make a grand entrance. It was all part of tonight's charade. And therefore I had to trust that Emily Thompson's knowledge of her husband's evening, after-work activities would be accurate. Otherwise, my charade would be wasted on a bunch of semidrunk, overweight college-football fans.
As I approached the lobby I could see the entrance of the hotel bar about one hundred feet in front of me. I picked up the pace, jogging frantically through the relatively busy lobby, pulling my suitcase behind me and attempting to dodge other hotel patrons as I desperately made my way toward the faint sounds of cheering.
I burst into the bar breathlessly, slowing my pace and wiping my brow with the back side of my hand. "What'd I miss? What's the score?" I took a deep, much-needed breath.
There were five guys sitting around the bar, staring up at the TV screen. All five of them turned to look at me. The grand entrance was a success.
I spotted Andrew Thompson at the far end with, thankfully, an empty bar stool next to him. I immediately made my way over, careful to keep my eyes attentively glued to the screen. I casually slid in next to Andrew, resting my suitcase off to the side and my purse on top of the bar.
I stared obliviously straight ahead as Andrew subtly gave me a once-over. I turned briefly to him and smiled. "Hi," I said aloofly, and then returned my attention to the game.
It took him a minute to come out of his trance, and then he finally replied, "Thirteen-nothing, USC."
"Damn it!" I cursed, shaking my head in disapproval. "Smith's been underestimating his injury. I knew they should have played Wilde."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Andrew momentarily ignore the game completely and look at me in utter astonishment, trying to digest the words coming out of my mouth. Because he knew as well I did that they made perfect
But, I must admit, being able to decipher men as fast as a cryptologist breaks top-secret codes can definitely come in handy when you're expected to encounter a different man every night as his supposed dream girl.
Andrew Thompson lived in San Francisco with his wife, but tonight he was in Los Angeles for business, staying at the Westin by the airport. I asked the valet at the hotel to escort me quietly to the back entrance of the building, discreetly slipping him a large bill to encourage compliance. He gladly accepted it and walked me around the side to a small, unadorned glass door that he respectfully held open for me. Pulling my black suitcase behind me, I located an empty public restroom on the ground floor and made my way into the handicap stall at the end of the row. I quickly shed my clothes and pulled out my flight attendant's uniform from the suitcase.
It actually belonged to a friend of mine who really was a flight attendant for Continental Airlines. I had explained to her that I was going to a fantasy-themed party where you were supposed to come dressed as a popular sexual fantasy. I told her that I wanted to dress up as an active member of the "mile-high club" and hoped that the flight attendant garb would properly communicate that.
She giggled at the idea and readily agreed to let me borrow it.
I zipped up the navy-colored skirt around my waist and pulled the matching jacket over my shoulders, adjusting the gold wings that were pinned to the lapel. I then slipped my Birkin into the suitcase and replaced it with a simpler black shoulder bag. Much more representative of a flight attendant's salary.
I fixed my hair and touched up my makeup in the bathroom mirror and then took a deep breath before opening the door.
Andrew Thompson was believed to be at the hotel bar, watching the college football game. Because, according to his wife, "he never misses it."
USC versus Michigan. Andrew's alma mater, and, coincidentally, tonight... Ashlyn's as well.
I didn't have the luxury of being able to scope out the bar and locate the subject before entering. I had to make a grand entrance. It was all part of tonight's charade. And therefore I had to trust that Emily Thompson's knowledge of her husband's evening, after-work activities would be accurate. Otherwise, my charade would be wasted on a bunch of semidrunk, overweight college-football fans.
As I approached the lobby I could see the entrance of the hotel bar about one hundred feet in front of me. I picked up the pace, jogging frantically through the relatively busy lobby, pulling my suitcase behind me and attempting to dodge other hotel patrons as I desperately made my way toward the faint sounds of cheering.
I burst into the bar breathlessly, slowing my pace and wiping my brow with the back side of my hand. "What'd I miss? What's the score?" I took a deep, much-needed breath.
There were five guys sitting around the bar, staring up at the TV screen. All five of them turned to look at me. The grand entrance was a success.
I spotted Andrew Thompson at the far end with, thankfully, an empty bar stool next to him. I immediately made my way over, careful to keep my eyes attentively glued to the screen. I casually slid in next to Andrew, resting my suitcase off to the side and my purse on top of the bar.
I stared obliviously straight ahead as Andrew subtly gave me a once-over. I turned briefly to him and smiled. "Hi," I said aloofly, and then returned my attention to the game.
It took him a minute to come out of his trance, and then he finally replied, "Thirteen-nothing, USC."
"Damn it!" I cursed, shaking my head in disapproval. "Smith's been underestimating his injury. I knew they should have played Wilde."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Andrew momentarily ignore the game completely and look at me in utter astonishment, trying to digest the words coming out of my mouth. Because he knew as well I did that they made perfect
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