A Matter of Trust

Summary: A chance encounter, a chance for love?

Author's Note: This story was written for the Literotica 2021 Winter Holidays Story Contest.

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"Is it any good?"

I looked up at the woman in the middle seat next to me in surprise. She'd paid me no attention when she rushed aboard the plane at the last second, typing something on her phone before the flight attendant said the cabin door was closing and phones had to go off or in Airplane Mode.

She'd looked frustrated as she put the phone into the seatback pocket in front of her, buckled her seatbelt and pulled it tight, and then sat back with her eyes closed. She seemed pretty, with wavy, dark brown hair about a third of the way down her back, but I didn't get a good look and really couldn't check her out while sitting next to her so I soon forgot about her.

Now she'd torn me from my thoughts. Looking up, I said, "Uh, sorry?"

"Your story? Is it any good?"

In surprise, I flipped my laptop closed and twisted around where I could speak with the nosy woman and get a better look at her. When I did, I was surprised to see that she was quite pretty, with dark brown eyes, and a playful smile that was beaming at me.

"Uh...it's a report for work," I replied. "Boring stuff, really."

"Really? I bet your boss is going to love that last part."

***

Chet Himmerman, my boss, called me into his office two days before Thanksgiving with a big change to my current assignment.

"Marc, Raymond Holmes of J.C. Wimberly Saw Mills called me at home last night."

I'd already heard that Chet and Ray had been friends at their fundamentalist Christian college so that wasn't a big surprise, but the next part was.

"No one was hurt, fortunately, but, despite all the precautions they've been taking, they had another accident yesterday. Ray says if they have another reportable injury, OSHA will shut them down in a heartbeat, which isn't what they need, especially right before the holidays. They have 109 employees and that's a lot of husbands, wives, and kids that would be hurting."

"I'm about 50% through the safety protocol report they hired us to do, sir. I guess they need it sooner rather than later?"

"No, though that will help with your modified assignment that Ray and I discussed at length last night. We want you on the plane for Washington state bright and early on Monday. We want you to personally look at every procedure they have and update their protocols to keep anything like this, or worse, from happening again. Pack what you need; you'll be out there for three to four weeks learning every piece of equipment they have in their plant. I want you to know it backward, forward, and sideways, and then you need to develop every procedure to prevent any accident short of a massive equipment failure. Oh, and I want maintenance protocols reviewed and updated to make sure that doesn't happen, too."

Glancing at the calendar, I said, "Sir, four weeks puts it right into Christmas-time."

"I guess that means you better do what it takes to finish in closer to three weeks rather than four then, doesn't it?"

After three straight weeks learning to operate every piece of equipment in the plant and reviewing all of the equipment manuals and the plant's procedures, protocols, and safety equipment, I was on my way home, switching planes in Denver, even as the early members of the holiday crowd were starting their travels.

The holidays weren't on my mind, though. I'd worked straight through, twenty-one days, twelve to sometimes fifteen hours a day, so there'd been no time off and practically no socializing. With a two and a half hour flight, a window seat, and a screen on my laptop to prevent viewing from any angle except head on, I decided to try to make some progress on my current personal project. I'd worked out some details in the middle seat on the first leg of my journey, but hadn't written or typed anything due to the subject that now may have been discovered....

***

"The last part? What do you mean?"

Had she been able to see my laptop despite the privacy screen? I needed to be sure since I frequently used it to type my stories in public places when I was sure no one would be able to look over my shoulder. I'd paid extra for the top of the line model due to its intended use.

She leaned close to my ear and whispered, "I don't think a number of those words generally show up in work reports."

She'd seen something! I had to find out more. I smiled, as innocently as I could, and asked, "So what do you think you saw?"

She cocked her head as she stared at me under her brow for a few seconds before smiling. Leaning toward my ear again, she whispered several words that confirmed my fear, she had indeed seen my screen.

"How could you see that? This is supposed to be the best privacy screen on the market. It's not supposed to allow anyone to see what's on the screen if they're more than 12 degrees off center. If I lean too close to the screen, I can't even see parts of it.

Her smile was bigger. "Twelve degrees, eh? How do you know I wasn't at 11.5 degrees, just inside the allowable?"

I stared. "I'm an engineer. I might not be able to tell the difference in 11.5 and 12 degrees by sight, but I sure as hell can between 40 to 50 degrees, where you were, and twelve."

"Oh, an engineer! So I guess you admit it's not exactly a report for work, then, right?"

"You saw it, you should know," I growled.

She was enjoying this, all too much I feared. She laughed lightly before gripping my arm and whispering, "I couldn't see anything on your screen...but I could see your keystrokes."

Nobody watches keystrokes because the fingers cover the keys! And while I'm not blazing fast at typing, my fingers are in constant motion and I'm not hunting and pecking. "How?" I asked before answering my own question. "There's no way!"

She wiggled her fingers between us, apparently showing me how thin and delicate they were before she answered. "I'm a professional transcriber. Typing 120 words a minute without making a mistake, on a consistent basis, is my job."

"120? Wow. But that doesn't tell me anything."

"Over 150 sometimes, but it's too easy to mess up and waste more time making corrections. As for what it tells you, I can tell what you're typing—at, what? 40 to 45 words a minute? And slower most of the time while you're composing?—with probably 80 to 90 percent accuracy from watching your finger movements on the keyboard, assuming you're doing it right with standard movements. It's my super power."

She held her hands at her shoulder level with her palms up, leading me to laugh. She leaned in close again, our faces inches apart so we could whisper between ourselves without being overheard. "So you really read what I was typing?"

Her eyes were dark brown, almost identical to the color of her hair. They were practically twinkling as she looked at me in amusement.

"Ye-es. But you still haven't told me if it's any good."

"It will be, but this is still the first draft. I have until Thursday night to do all the edits, a word by word read, and a final polish."

"Thursday? That's the day after tomorrow. And you don't have an editor? Or a beta reader?"

"Nope, I do it all myself. I've used a beta a few times but not on this series."

"Wait, it's a series! What's it called?"

I smiled this time before shaking my head. "Not a chance. You have your superpower, but I have my secret identity."

As an erotic writer, my real identity was sacrosanct, never to be revealed to readers, other writers (even those on the website that I considered to be friends), or women with strange superpowers that I met on planes. Of course, none of my friends, relatives, or coworkers knew my website username/writing pseudonym either since none of them knew about my writing. I had to keep it that way to keep from getting fired, or worse.

She gave me a little frown. "Spoil sport. But I guess I understand and can live with that." Her hand touched my arm, a light caress, before settling on it, her fingers and palm cupped lightly over me.

She'd been playful, but now she'd left me an opportunity to return the favor. Yes, I should have kept my mouth shut, but strangely, there was something about her...

"Oh, so you think you have a choice, do you?"

She turned in her seat toward me, positioning her body so her back faced the guy in the aisle seat and anyone who happened by. Her shoulder and arm blocked the little gap between the seats to keep those behind from peeking through, and her hand slid down to my thigh, trailing up my leg until she was dangerously close to trouble before she leaned even further in and whispered, maybe an inch from my ear so I could feel the heat of her breath, "Obviously. A woman always has a choice."

Then her tongue flicked my ear lobe and I shuddered.

Her hand was back on my arm as she rolled back in her seat and she was smiling at me, with her head still tilted close.

"See?"

My head fell back against my seatback and I shifted a bit, trying to ease pressure on an unforeseen issue. She glanced down knowingly, and grinned, before looking back in my eyes.

"Do you have a wife, girlfriend, or maybe a friend with benefits to take care of that for you when we land?"

I looked out the window, turning away from her.

She squeezed my arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push too far or to hurt you." She sounded serious for the first time in our conversation. I turned back to her and saw her holding out those delicate fingers toward me.

"Can we start over? Hi, I'm Nikki Keller. Keller Professional Transcription Service, 37, divorced, and living in North DeKalb. And you are?"

"Hi, Nikki. Nice to meet you."

I paused for a moment, considering the other part of the secret identity conundrum. If I told her my real name, I wouldn't be able to direct her to my works if she asked, but if I gave my username, I'd never be able to tell her my real name. Considering that she was cute...and sexy...and that I thought I might like her...

"I'm Marcus Pope—feel free to call me Marc—consulting safety engineer, 41, single again after catching my girlfriend stepping out on me a few weekends ago, and I live in East Cobb." That was probably no more than 20 to maybe 40 minutes from her if traffic wasn't too bad. Then, I took the leap; it wasn't planned, but it just came out: "Nikki, would you like to have dinner with me sometime?"

Surprisingly, she was nodding. "I'd like that, Marc, very much. How's your schedule look for, say, tonight?"

"We'll, actually, I sort of had plans this evening."

"Oh." She looked rather disappointed, giving me the first real advantage so far in our conversation.

"Yeah, I was going to set home by myself, a little sad and a lot lonely, but, if you'll go to dinner with me, I wouldn't mind breaking that old plan."

She was grinning as she nodded again.

***

The restaurant where we met was decked out for Christmas, with the servers wearing Santa's elves-like attire and little bells that jingled as they walked. The speaker system played non-stop Christmas music, more than a little too loudly.

I'd had almost three hours to think from the time we separated at the airport to the time we reunited at the restaurant, and it was amazing the changes those three hours brought.

When we parted at the airport, I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze as we looked into each other's eyes, before I kissed the backs of her fingers. Yeah, she looked at me like I was crazy rather than gallant, as intended. When we reunited those few hours later, she slid into my arms as if we were long time lovers, and our kiss reflected that, too. Though it was our first, there was nothing tentative about it, going on for ages as we explored each other and the time we'd missed to this point. Okay, maybe it was twenty seconds or maybe a minute, but we embraced and hugged when our lips parted before we went inside, arm-in-arm.

"Marc, please tell me I'm not dreaming. Tell me that you're as nice a guy as you seem and that it's okay to like you as much as I do. Please tell me."

"I hope you're not dreaming, Nikki, because if you are and if I'm having the same one, I'll be really disappointed when I realize this is a nightmare instead of the dream come true that it seems."

She smiled and pulled my hand to her mouth where she kissed my fingers before she pinched my hand.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You know, pinch me so I'll know I'm not dreaming? That was your pinch. Are you awake?"

"I think so...unless I just dreamed that you pinched me."

"Good, now you pinch me for my turn. I want to be sure, too."

I wasn't exactly pinching what I wanted, but it was enough for her to feel it and Nikki laughed.

"The idea is for the pinch to be hard enough you jump, not a love nibble, but I'll take it and let mine count for me too since you flinched. Therefore, I'm pretty sure we're not dreaming."

"Good, not a dream. Tell me, though, how'd you come to be on the same plane as me?"

"Coming home from my Christmas visit to my sister and her family."

"Uh, you know Christmas isn't until Saturday, right?"

"True, but Lizzie and Keith were leaving for an Alaskan cruise this morning, so I went out early."

"What about your parents?"

"Mom passed away two years ago, and we haven't seen our dad in years. Mom and Dad divorced when Lizzie and I were in high school, and he took off."

"I'm so sorry," I said, taking her hand in mine. "So what are you doing for the holidays?"

She sighed. "No plans this year, for the first time ever. I'll stay home and read and relax. Maybe make a pan of brownies...or something. Then, I'll eat them all and get depressed about getting fat..."

Nikki was maybe 5'-7 and 125 to 130 pounds, a far cry from fat, so I started to laugh at her joke, but there was pain in her voice that I hadn't expected. My response was automatic and completely unintentional.

"Then how about coming to my parents' house with me for Christmas?"

She looked at me in surprise, but when she saw the look of expectation, of hope, she shook her head. "Wait, you're serious, aren't you?"

"Ahem, sure," I replied, suddenly liking the idea more by the second. "They retired up in the North Georgia mountains a couple of years ago, between Dalton and Ellijay. My brother and his perfect family will be there, and my sister and her daughter should be, too. We can even take bets on what her date will be like."

She frowned at me. "That doesn't sound very nice; betting on your sister's date?"

"Oh, yeah! She's brought a different guy practically every year since her divorce went through. Kat invited a bald-headed biker with tattoos last year, but the year before that was a sleazy used-car salesman who never took off his suit coat."

She laughed but then saw my expression. "You really are serious."

"Definitely. One year there was a televangelist, then one there was a firefighter—no, make that two years for him—and one year there was even a baker who brought some of the most excellent cinnamon rolls. I think he was my favorite, though he was a little nutty."

She rolled her eyes at my attempted pun and looked at my tummy. "Doesn 't look like he stuck around long enough to fatten you up."

"No, not long. Kat's a sweet girl, but she's confused and even more confusing, gravitating to the bad boys. She needs someone to take care of her, but she gets ticked off at anyone who actually tries to do it. Most guys worth anything learn to stay away pretty quick, leaving the prior examples and others who are more interested in getting into her panties than anything else."

"Ouch, that's not a nice thing to say about your sister."

"The part about her isn't nice, though it's true, and the last part says more about the guys themselves than about her."

"True enough, I guess. So you'd want me to show up and interfere in your family gathering?"

"No, I wouldn't say interfere. I'd want you there to enjoy yourself, to meet everyone, and to keep me company so I can keep you company. What about it?"

"Hold on, now. What are we talking about? Drive up in the morning, have Christmas lunch, and then drive home?"

"No, it's a weekend bash. Christmas is on Saturday, so we'd go up this Friday afternoon and come back whenever you want, within reason, on Sunday. Oh, and you'd have your own room."

"Seriously? How big's their house?"

"Say you'll come with me and you can see for yourself."

"Tell me, if I were to agree to this, what should I bring?"

"Whatever you need, but make it warm. Dress in layers so you can pull off the top layer and still be decent."

She raised her eyebrows.

"A big fireplace and kids. It's a minimal PDA, no risque zone."

She nodded, understanding. "Gifts for the hosts? A sexy nightie for the bedroom?"

"Mom might like a sexy nightie, but I wouldn't get one for Dad if I were you."

She rolled her eyes again. "Anything else I should know?"

"Just that you'll be treated like family, that it's a fun time, and that I'd really, really like for you to come."

She left me hanging for far longer than I hoped before she finally answered. "Okay, I'll come, but first, you have to tell me about your writing. You didn't think you were going to get by without an explanation on that, did you?"

"You don't want to hear that, surely."

"Uh huh. Spill. How long have you been writing?"

I sighed. "I started writing in school, short little stories, some of which were even slightly inventive and entertaining. I stopped through college and grad school, for the most part, and then entirely through a few girlfriends, but then I found an outlet on the internet, around fifteen years ago, and the bug was back. I was just an amateur author, but I spent years writing and publishing my original works on the internet in hopes that readers would find and enjoy them."

"Did you have any success?"

"Ha. It was with great disappointment that I discovered millions of others had the exact same idea and were doing the same exact thing!"

She nodded knowingly. "It's a tough crowd when you have unlimited stories available to read for free."

"Yep, published masterpieces seem to gather dust, practically unread, and lesser works like mine receive even less attention."

"I bet they're not that bad."

"Maybe not. Years of writing and publishing story after story eventually bought me some hard-earned and somewhat improved skills. My stories became, well, let's say,more intricately crafted, and that all helped my confidence, too."

"Did you gain more readers?"

"Are you kidding? Barely a one," I laughed. "Seriously, a few more over time, but then one day I overheard a couple of ladies from the accounting department at work in a quiet conversation in the break room. I thought they were discussing the season finale of one of those cable shows that I'd watched the evening before, so I spoke up.

"Charity looked at Sylvia and then toward the door to the break room before motioning me to come over. Apparently feeling it safe, she tapped her phone as she whispered, 'Chapter something-or-other of a story we're reading was published yesterday. It's the rage on the internet right now, in certain circles, anyway.' I mentioned the name but Nikki just shook her head like I'd done at the time.

"Well, don't feel bad, I hadn't heard of it either. Charity, though, took pity on my apparent lack of hipness to the current scene and showed me the website she was talking about. I think I almost passed out."

Now Nikki was grinning. "Was it that bad?"

"No. It wasn't even the name of the website or the content of the story, which I gleaned in a glance, but rather the astounding number of views it had received since it was published just the day before! I couldn't believe it."