Rita's Point Of View
I stood frozen on the polished concrete floor of the hangar, the cool, air-conditioned air whistling softly through the vast space, yet my skin burned as if I'd stepped into a furnace. My jaw had dropped so low it felt unhinged, the muscles in my face slack with disbelief.
I stared at the towering, midnight-blue metallic beast sitting in the center of the room, its gold-trimmed engines gleaming like crown jewels under the floodlights, and then snapped my head back toward Charles.
He stood there casually, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers, holding my scuffed, overstuffed Italian suitcase in the other as if it were a plastic grocery bag. The contrast between his calm demeanor and the extravagance before me made my head spin.
A sharp, breathless gasp tore from my throat. I pointed a trembling finger at the plane, then at his chest, then back at the plane, my hand shaking with the absurdity of it all.
