“Not the most comfortable seats in the world, are they?”
Carson looked up from his magazine briefly annoyed that the sweet-faced blond beside him had chosen that moment to interrupt what was (for once) a halfway decent review of one of his restaurants. Four joints on two coasts with reservations weeks in advance, a best-selling cookbook and his own cooking show and still the smarmy critics found fault. This particular one at least liked the food, even if she did trash the presentation, decor and service.
“I mean, this is a waiting area,” the blond persisted. “You’d think someone would have actually tried out these seats before buying, like, ten thousand of them.”
“I think that’s the point,” he answered, “It’s the same principle as salty pretzels on a bar--they make you want to drink more. These lousy seats encourage you to leave as soon as possible.”
“Where’re you headed?” She had a voice that brought the image of a purring cat to his mind.
“Bar Harbor.” Carson didn’t even want to say the words. He’d been trying ignore the fact that he was about to get on a puddle-jumper on a blustery, late summer day. He’d been on lots of them over the past year and hated every flight. He felt every bump in the air in those flying torture chambers. “I’m not looking forward to it.”
“That’s my final stop too. You don’t like flying?”
“No, I don’t,” he confessed. “I don’t like flying even when I’m on a big airbus, but I like it even less on these mini-planes. Every time I get on one I’m sure it’s my last flight”
She laughed a small, snorty kind of chuckle. “They’re really quite safe, you know. Small planes are designed to ride the wind.” She motioned a wavy up and down path through the air. He noticed that her nails were perfectly done and brilliant scarlet, like a porn star. He let his imagination picture the hand wrapped around his cock. Nice.
“Tell you what. If you’ll entertain me--keep my mind off of the journey--I’ll buy you dinner tonight.” He was used to having plenty of female attention on these god-awful book tours. Some of it was welcome; like the pretty food groupies so willing to bed the ‘famous’ chef. Other kinds, not so much. He’d lost count of the number of beefy matrons who thought they could score with their encyclopedic knowledge of every show he’d ever made and every article he ever penned.
If she was surprised at his invitation, she didn’t show it. But then, she had the kind of face and body that probably prompted plenty of spontaneous invitations--for dinner or otherwise. She threw him the old ‘head toss’ and accepted. “I know the town pretty well. Did you have a particular place in mind?”
“Whatever place you choose will be fine with me. Somewhere quiet so we can talk.” Carson was hoping for a lot more than talk. She hadn’t yet recognized him, which he thought was a little strange. Not that he was some mega-star, but he could hardly go anywhere these days without someone approaching him either for his autograph or some inane conversation about food. If she didn’t know who he was, it wouldn’t be as easy to seduce her. He had grown accustomed to his celebrity giving him a little boost with the women he met.
He needn’t have worried. Just as they were about to board the plane, a mousy woman with two kids in tow approached him. “Chef Carson,” she gushed, “I just had to tell you how much I enjoy your show. I have every one of your cookbooks, too. I sure wish I had one with me to get your autograph.”
