Harden My Hart - Clare Connelly Page 0,1

took me a couple of years to work my way out of economy and into premium cabins. Up until recently, until I handed in my notice after eight years’ of criss-crossing the globe, I was working first class cabins. But even those are nothing compared to the unrivalled grandeur inside this Hart jet.

I’m talking a huge plane, like a commercial jet, that more closely resembles a penthouse apartment. Leather sofas, reclining armchairs, a cinema, bedrooms fitted out like the nicest hotels I’ve ever been in, bathrooms with proper spa baths, and a boardroom fitted out with a bank of computer screens, printers, everything you could need to run an empire from the air. I don’t know what I expected, but definitely nothing quite like this.

‘Please, Cora, I need your help. I’ve never been so sick. I literally can’t even get out of bed. There’s no way I can fly today. We weren’t meant to be going anywhere; this is completely unscheduled. Besides, you’ve quit now, haven’t you?’ I hesitated. ‘It’s a luxury long haul. Maybe a domestic flight or two once you’re there. And I’ll owe you. Big time.’

I press my lips together, wondering when I became such a soft touch, shaking my head a little from side to side. The induction was brief but thorough. A nice man—Edward—who’d been managing Hart jet crew for eight years, he explained as we boarded the steps, ran me through the basics. It was, in theory, as Amy had said, much easier than commercial. No regularly scheduled meal service and instead of looking after a cabin full of passengers who expected me to jump when they snapped their fingers I had only one passenger.

Holden.

Hotter than Hades.

Hart.

And though there’s only one of him he’s sure intent on making me feel as hectic as if I had a full complement of guests to care for.

I look at the dim light in the galley, compressing my lips. There are four flight crew members on board, plus four pilots. I was nominated to do the overnight shift but I don’t care. The truth is, I love flying through the night. There’s something magical about it—contrasting shades of darkness that only the trained eye can pick out. Purples and blacks blend differently depending on the atmosphere and whether we’re flying over ocean or land. I’m used to this, but I’ll never tire of it. I’ve tried to capture the phenomenon on film without success. It’s one of the few things that are better in reality, rather than captured as a photograph.

The other crew members are sleeping. They presumed Holden would sleep and that I’d be left to my own devices. It is, after all, two in the morning LA time. But no, he’s wide awake, and when I push into the cabin his grey eyes—the colour of the ocean on a stormy day—are fixed on me in a way that provokes an involuntary and unwelcome reaction. I want to photograph him. The idea comes to me unbidden but I can’t help imagining what a striking portrait he’d make. He’s handsome but there’s a contrast with his easy good looks and his manner, which is somewhat forbidding.

My stomach pulls and my pulse heaves. I ignore the unwelcome physical response, keeping a professional expression locked to my face.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

He turns his attention back to the papers in front of him. They bear the ‘Hart Brothers Industries’ insignia in the corner.

‘Who are you?’

I frown, not immediately comprehending why he’s asking me that.

Impatience flickers across his face; my pulse trembles. ‘It’s not rocket science. I’m asking your name.’

‘Cora.’

‘Cora what?’

‘Cora Andersson.’

He nods, then drops his attention to his papers once more. Distracted by his work, I have a moment to observe him unawares and I take advantage of it before I realise what I’m doing. I’ve heard of him, I’ve seen his photo in the papers, but up close he’s all kinds of distracting. Handsome, sure, but not in an ordinary way. His complexion is tanned, his hair dark, his features broad and symmetrical. A square jaw, a straight nose, lips that are almost rectangular and a divot in his chin that is the one softening part of his whole expression. His physique is just as impressive. I couldn’t help but notice as he boarded the plane and lifted his backpack off, so his shirt pulled apart at the waist to reveal a flat, toned stomach, that he’s fit.

Really fit.

My mouth goes dry and after a few seconds I realise