“And look. My voice didn't kill him.”
Then she smirks at me, and it sinks in.
No.
Oh, no.
3
Amy
The last week has been a blur, between onboarding at Maartensi and learning Hamish's endorsement and American expo game schedule. But now we're settled into this flight from Boston to Los Angeles, in first class, and I'm eating a piece of salmon sushi while sipping prosecco.
Life does not suck.
Pretending I fit in is the hardest part here. I didn't fly on a plane until I was sixteen, when our school band played at DisneyWorld and we took the cheapest possible flight, everyone limited to one twenty-pound carry-on. Since then, I've flown commercial, and Shannon's flown on the Anterdec private jet lots of times, but first class is new for me.
On the company dime.
Hamish came to the airport separately, last minute and rushed, of course; I arrived three hours early. I'm back living at home with Mom and Dad for now, just until I get my first few paychecks and have all the deposits for my own place in Boston.
I'm eyeing a nice one bedroom in the Seaport District.
Quintana and Jody couriered over a good-sized box of samples from companies who want Hamish's face, voice, or body associated with their products. Part of my new job is to evaluate the products and work with him to determine whether they’re a good image fit for him. I checked the box, charging the extra luggage fee to my expense account.
Ahhhh. Expense account. I've made it, haven't I?
So why do I still feel like an imposter?
A big elbow brushes against my breast, jostling my hand with the wine glass, a few drops sloshing over the rim and dripping onto my top. Even in first class, with only two wide seats on either side of the aisle and an eighteen-inch space between us, Hamish's big body cannot be contained.
“Hey,” I say quietly, trying not to make a scene. “Watch it.”
“Hmph. Sorry.” He doesn’t even open his eyes. Grumpy McGrumperson has two moods: infuriatingly flirtatious and curmudgeon.
Guess which one he's in now?
Apparently, it's not so funny when your own agent and a corporation with many millions of dollars riding on you decide you need a handler. Hamish harumphed and tantrummed, argued and fumed, but in the end it was settled, and there was only one conclusion:
Neither of us likes this, but we both have to accept it.
I’ve also learned a lot of Scottish profanity, but a few words still escape me. What the heck is a numpty?
In my brief bag, my laptop beckons, with folders waiting for me to read, background material on Hamish and my job. I glance at Hamish, whose face is turned away. His seat is reclined, the long, lean lines of his body stretched out and relaxed slightly as he sinks into sleep. I'm wearing a tailored pantsuit with a sleeveless mock neck; the outfit cost me about a week's pay at my new salary. He's wearing twill trousers, navy blue, with a heathered green and navy wool sweater over a light blue button-down dress shirt, and leather loafers.
Perfect business casual travel wear. We'll both ditch our outer layers the second we reach L.A., where my weather app tells me it's a sunny eighty-four degrees right now.
“Excuse me, Ms. Jacoby?” The flight attendant for first class bends at the knee so she's at eye level. This, too, is new. In coach–or economy, as Hamish calls it–the attendants lean, they don’t bend.
But it’s tighter quarters back there.
“Yes?”
“You've finished your sushi. Would you like more? Or something from the dessert menu?” She offers me a hot washcloth, clearly for me to wipe my hands between courses.
Courses! On a plane! In coach–er, economy–the closest you come to a course is choosing between Cheez-Its and Poppers from the basket that skims over your head in the attendant's arms.
“Mmm, yes. Thank you,” I say, taking the cloth, ignoring the searing heat as I use it to wash the sushi off my hands. Hamish's shoulder goes up, then shifts toward the window.
“And Mr. McCormick?” she whispers to me with a smile I suddenly don't like. “Would he like anything else?” Her eyes cut over to him, apple cheeks rounding with a deeper smile, and suddenly, I realize she's on Hamish's dessert menu.
“He's sleeping,” I say with an emphasis that makes her lean away from me. “I don't think he needs anything right now, other than to be left alone.”
“Tha's right,” he murmurs. “But nae one will. Now I have ma verra own shadow.”
The attendant tilts her head in confusion. “Shadow?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I whisper. “You know the type. Temperamental athletes.”
“Ooo, right,” she says. “On the other hand, a man with a temper is a man with some passion.”
At those words, the big lout rolls over and sits up, giving his body such a stretch that the backs of his hands scrape along the cabin’s ceiling, repositioning my perfectly aimed stream of air from the tiny fan.
“Now there's a lass who understands me,” he says to her with a wink. “Ach, and a bonnie one, too. How's about a whisky, pet?” he adds with a smile so dazzling, even I want to climb into his lap and kiss him right now.
Which I can't.
It's in my employment contract. I literally can't.
And he can't right back.
“One whisky it is. I’m sorry we only have Johnnie Walker Black. Is that okay?”
“Aye.”
“Anything else? Sushi? Spare ribs? Shrimp cocktail? A sweet?”
“The only sweet I'm interested in is ye, pet,” he says to her with a brilliant flash of bright teeth. Her giggle makes my teeth clench.
My gut, too.
“Ms. Jacoby,” she says as I plunk the now-cool damp cloth on her tray. “Dessert? We have a flight of small bites if you'd prefer, or a larger portion from the six options.”
“I'll take the flight. Like a beer tasting?” I ask, unsure exactly what she means.
“Yes, but it’s different pies,” she chuckles. “One small portion each of key lime, banoffee, Boston cream, apple, strawberry shortcake, and pecan.”
“What's banoffee?”
Hamish snorts. “Banana toffee pie. I'll take a big one o' those.”
As she backs away, her eyes are entirely on Hamish. I drain my prosecco and hand her the empty glass.
“More?” she asks. I'm tempted, but I shake my head. If Hamish is drinking, I've been instructed to stick to one glass of alcohol.
“Make mine a double, pet,” he says to her as he presses his AirPods in. His phone is resting on the fold-down shelf in the seat back in front of him. He finds a soccer channel, suddenly keenly focused, his right knee bouncing up and down, full of nervous energy.
No. Not nervous.
Just too much kinetic energy to contain in his body.
“That's your second double,” I point out, instantly hating the prim tone in my own voice.
“Thanks, Mum. Ye want to tell me to take out the bin next?”
“Just noting it.”
“I'm a grown man. I can manage ma own life.”
“Clearly you can't if they had to hire me.”