The rubber tires screeched as the plane touched down at the Princess Juliana International airport in St. Maarten. The landing was a bit rough—though the sky had cleared, the wind still gusted. Kate gathered her bottle of water and her bag onto her lap while she waited to deplane. She felt a little woozy after the turbulence and the groping and the stiff drink. She wiped a finger across the screen turning her phone’s power back on to check her messages. Nothing from Moira. Eight new messages from work, all about the new advertising and PR campaign for SED, Incorporated. It was probably the most important pitch she’d ever worked on—it would be worth more than 50% of her firm’s total income for the year if her team got it. But, she reminded herself, everything was done from storyboards to mockups. The only thing any of her co-workers should’ve been doing was polishing and perfecting.
Kate glanced at the emails and shot back quick responses to the questions. Font, Frutiger. Color, Maroon. The first tagline. Not a comma, a period. Conde Nast. The pressure on the inside of her skull was mounting—a sure sign of a major headache. Martin had stepped out into the aisle and was actually waiting for her to go first. She slid the phone into the pocket of her linen pants and stepped out of the row. She glanced up and reached with her hand toward the overhead compartment where she had stowed her carry-on, but it was already open, and empty. She had completely forgotten about the luggage falling out during the rough flight. Her eyes searched and then came to a rest on a completely horrifying sight. Her bag had come unlatched, and all of her clothes, toiletries, and lingerie were strewn about the first-class cabin. A stewardess caught her mortified expression and made a dash toward a particularly lacy black pair of panties. Kate stumbled toward the suitcase, tripping over someone’s protruding briefcase, and snatching up her bikini and a silk camisole as well as her makeup bag. She stuffed them back into her suitcase and slammed it shut.
Her hair had fallen in her face and her blouse had come untucked during the mad scrambling. Holding her damaged suitcase firmly in her right hand, she walked back to her row, where Martin was still standing. He had an incredibly devilish grin on his face, and she cocked her head in confusion—that is until the red silk thong dangling from his finger caught her eye. Her cheeks matched her panties, as she snatched them out of his hand and stuffed them into her pocket. Then she swung her bag up onto her shoulder and stomped off of the plane.
“You’re welcome,” Martin called after her.
Kate didn’t look back as she marched down the stairs and along the path marked with orange cones to the gate door for the terminal. Inside, she quickly located the transportation sign and headed toward it without looking back. She couldn’t even think about facing that cad. I mean, who does that…picks up a lady’s underwear and holds it up for all the world to see. The airport was crowded with tourists, flowing caftans and Hawaiian shirts abounded. Kate could see a small desk with a stack of brochures and one small man trying to serve the long line of stranded, disgruntled passengers. She took her place at the end of the line, which was clearly moving on Caribbean time, not New York time. The weekend would probably be over before she made it to the front.
“What are you doing?” Martin’s sexy voice and breath on the back of her neck made her jump.
“What’s it look like?”
“I’ve got my own transport.”
“How nice for you.”
“Is this about the panties?”
Kate spun to face him, her arms crossed firmly across her chest, anger blazing in her hazel eyes. She was silent as her glare burned into him. He threw his hands up in surrender, but his eyes were still smiling.
“You don’t even feel bad about that, do you?”
“Not really. Nice choice though. Red suits you.”
“You’re a pervert.”
“I’m not the one who left my undies all over a plane.” He extracted gunmetal grey aviator shades from his pocket and slid them on his nose, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. Then he grasped the handle of her smashed roller bag and started toward the glass door, a spring in his step.
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