Flying by the Seat of My Knickers Read online

  Flying by the Seat of My Knickers

  The Travel Mishaps of Caity Shaw

  Book One

  Eliza Watson

  Flying by the Seat of My Knickers

  Copyright © 2015 by Elizabeth Watson

  All rights reserved by author.

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen at LLewellen Designs

  Interior formatting by Author E.M.S.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Elizabeth Watson.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 0-9895219-6-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9895219-6-3

  Dedication

  To my Irish rellies

  Charlotte, Alexander, and Ivan Molloy, Bernard Bolger, Matty Nolan, Joyce Fullerton, William Fullerton, Patricia Barron, Patrick Flannery, Bernard Joyce, Des Joyce, Caroline Joyce, and Imelda Abberton

  Acknowledgments

  Flying by the Seat of My Knickers would never have been written if it wasn’t for my Irish rellies and friends. Thank you for welcoming me into your families and for helping Mark and I make Ireland our second home. I’m eternally grateful to Katrina and Franz Molloy for discovering our house and convincing me that, yes, I could own a home in Ireland. If it wasn’t for the hard work and dedication of genealogist, supersleuth, and friend Jane Daly, I’d still be wandering aimlessly through Ireland’s cemeteries searching for ancestry clues. Thanks a mil, Jane!

  I would like to thank my husband, Mark, and all my friends and family for believing in me and supporting my writing in so many ways. I would have given up years ago without your encouragement. Thank you to everyone who read Flying by the Seat of My Knickers and provided in-depth feedback, helping to make it a stronger book: Nikki Mason, Elizabeth Wright, Samantha March, Laura Iding, Sandra Watson, Kate Bowman, and Robyn Neeley. Thanks also to Sandra Watson for providing professional insight into Narcissistic Personality Disorder and the damaging, emotional effect narcissists have on their victims. To my mom, Judy Watson (née Flannery), for sharing my interest in our Irish heritage and for understanding my obsession with Ancestry.com. I will forever cherish the memories of our numerous research journeys to Ireland.

  To Lyndsey Lewellen for an absolutely brilliant cover. You are incredibly talented and understood my vision right from the cover’s initial concept, making the process a breeze. To Dori Harrell for your fab editorial skills. And to Amy Atwell at Author E.M.S. for another flawless interior format.

  Also by Eliza Watson

  Kissing My Old Life Au Revoir

  Writing as Eliza Daly

  Under Her Spell

  Identity Crisis

  Writing Young Adult as Beth Watson

  Getting a Life, Even If You’re Dead

  Chapter One

  “You want me to dress up like a piece of meat?” I glared at the foam costume, a bratwurst in a bun, covered with felt.

  “The temp is obviously a no-show.” My sister, Rachel, peered around Daly’s, a Dublin pub, one last time for the missing girl, who’d likely seen the costume and fled. “The welcome dinner starts in a half hour. You’ll just have a few souvenir photos taken with attendees.”

  More like blackmail photos.

  I’d worked as Santa’s helper at the mall three times. The green elf outfit had made my skin look yellow. The velvet collar had given me a rash. The pointy shoes had caused blisters on my toes, their jingling bells once attracting two stray dogs that chased me through the mall parking lot to my car. That costume had been haute couture compared to this one.

  “You’ll be dressed up. Nobody will even know it’s you. Gretchen is on food and beverage. Declan is working ground. I had you as a floater. I need you to do this, Caity.”

  I plastered on a perky smile. “Of course I’ll do it.” As if I had a choice.

  Per Mom’s request, Rachel, an event planner for Brecker, a Milwaukee-based beer company, had hired me to work a meeting in Dublin. Mom promised not to tell my older sister why I’d been fired three months ago from my first job out of college. Between losing my job after only ten months and my past track record, Rachel probably thought dressing up like a piece of meat was the limit of my abilities. Maybe she was tired of picking up my slack for twenty-four years and upset that Mom had forced her to hire me. Maybe making me dress up like a bratwurst was her idea of revenge.

  My stomach clenched. What else did she have planned for me this trip?

  Rachel waved over Declan, another staff member on our team. “Help Caity into this costume.”

  Declan studied the costume with a smile, a sparkle in his blue Irish eyes. “A sausage, is it?”

  “A bratwurst,” I said.

  “A banger.” Rachel looked at Declan. “Isn’t that what you call it here?”

  “Only if you’re English.”

  Call it filet mignon in a bun—it was still hideous.

  “To celebrate Brecker purchasing Flanagan’s beer, they’ve teamed up with Kildare Sausage to promote beer sausages at Ireland’s fall festivals. This is huge for Brecker. And don’t forget this meeting is about nurturing relationships with Flanagan’s employees. Don’t ever use the word acquisition.” Rachel glanced at her watch, then over at me. “You need to get dressed.”

  Declan grabbed the costume off the table. Just when I thought I couldn’t be more humiliated, I had a hot guy stuffing me into a sausage costume. My self-esteem had hit an all-time low.

  “I don’t need help. I can do it.”

  Rachel’s gaze narrowed. “How do you plan to zip up the back of the costume when you’ll barely be able to move in it? Besides, I had Declan down as the sausage handler for the opening of the reception.”

  At least Brecker had done a buyout at this Temple Bar area pub. Brecker’s VIPs and top beer distributers wouldn’t think this was as ridiculous as the locals would. The only locals included executives from Flanagan’s and Kildare Sausage, who were responsible for my Dublin debut as a sausage.

  Gretchen, a tall blond American staff member, walked up. “They said they don’t have the Brecker Dark posters.”

  “Seriously?” The small vein in Rachel’s forehead pulsated. Now probably wasn’t the time to mention she really should consider bangs. Her blue-eyed gaze darted around the pub filled with Guinness, Smithwick’s, Flanagan’s, and other Irish beer and liquor signs. “Unbelievable.” She marched toward the manager, talking with two musicians. Her black high heels clicked against the scarred wooden floor, and her short brown hair bounced against her shoulders.

  Gretchen eyed the sausage costume with amusement. “You must have done something to really piss her off.” She strutted across the pub toward Rachel.

  I’d known Gretchen for two days. It had only taken me two minutes to determine she was a bitch.

  “If it makes you feel better, these are brilliant sausages,” Declan said.

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Won’t be so bad. I’ve done madder things.”

  “Would you like to do this?”

  He smiled. “No thanks. Think of it as your initiation into your new career.”

  “This is a one-time job, helping out my sister.”

  It was more the other way around. I was being paid a wad of cash I didn’t ow
e taxes on until next April—well technically, January—allowing me to make a dent in my massive debt. Ultimately, I needed a stable, full-time job with benefits, and one I didn’t have to be intoxicated to travel to. Flying sucked.

  Declan looked skeptical. “Sure, it’s a one-off job. Until you get bit with the travel bug.” He gestured to my hand holding a postcard of the pub—a red exterior with black trim and gold lettering reading Daly’s. I’d planned to send it to someone, bragging about my first trip abroad for my glamorous job. I stuffed the postcard in my back pocket, not having anyone besides Mom to send it to anyway.

  Declan knelt and held out the costume. I caught a whiff of freshly fallen rain. Either it was his shampoo or he’d been caught in the rain while greeting attendees arriving from the airport. The calming scent caused my shoulders to relax slightly. I removed my shoes, then stuck my foot through a hole in the foam costume and slipped into the red legging, teetering on one leg. I braced a hand on Declan’s shoulder, steadying myself, sliding my foot into a shoe five sizes too big. I did the same with my other foot. I wiggled my toes.

  “How am I supposed to walk in clown feet?”

  Although my new expensive shoes Rachel had recommended, since I’d be on my feet all day, wouldn’t stay on my feet. The backless shoes kept slipping off, making it difficult to walk.

  “Clowns do it all the time,” Declan said.

  Precisely what I felt like. A clown.

  “Don’t feel bad. I once had to dress like a leprechaun. I’m a bit tall for a leprechaun, I’d say.”

  Declan was a half foot taller than me, around five feet nine inches, undoubtedly much taller than your average leprechaun.

  “And I wasn’t hidden behind a foam costume, merely a bloody red wig and fake beard.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with red hair?”

  “Yours is a nice auburn, not a bright, shocking red. And that wasn’t even the most humiliating part. The meeting planner made me stand outside the group’s breakfast every day and say, ‘Top o’ the mornin’ to ye.’ How mad is that? Nobody in Ireland actually says that.”

  I eyed Declan’s crisp white button-down shirt and black suit, trying to picture him in a green velvet ensemble, a red wig messing up his wavy, short brown hair. His hair always looked like he’d just run his fingers through it. A very laid-back style, like Declan.

  I smiled. “Are you serious or just trying to make me feel better?”

  “Dead serious. Never worked her meetings again.”

  Feeling a tad better, I slipped my arms through the red sleeves. Declan zipped up the back, and I immediately had to pee. Great. The costume’s mouth provided a limited view. I turned my head, staring at foam. I had to turn my entire body to look around. The costume was top heavy, causing me to wobble when I took a step. Declan steadied me.

  “Don’t ditch me,” I said.

  “I won’t.”

  As if on cue, the musicians started singing about a rocky road to Dublin. I glanced over at the two middle-aged guys perched on stools at the front of the pub. One gave me a mischievous wink. A real comedian.

  Declan offered me the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

  I slipped my arm through his. “Unfortunately, we shall.”

  The dinner was only two hours, the meeting a week. I could do this.

  Couldn’t I?

  I had to look at the upside. I was in Dublin, working toward paying off my debt, almost four thousand miles away from my ex-boyfriend in Milwaukee, feeling safe for the first time in months. Even though I was disguised as a sausage.

  Chapter Two

  “I once had to dress like Heidi on a Switzerland sales incentive trip for a food company.” Gretchen raised her voice, competing with the trio singing lively Irish tunes and the tourists packed into the pub across the street. I could picture Gretchen’s blond hair braided in a stylish twist, her breasts heaving out of a sexy, laced-up corset dress.

  Where the hell was the bartender with my Guinness?

  Gretchen’s stories were undoubtedly meant to make me relive the whole sausage humiliation. As if I could forget. I’d had almost a hundred photos taken with thirty Brecker attendees and dozens of Flanagan’s and Kildare Sausage employees. As soon as the dinner had ended, I’d stripped off my costume, peed, and fled to this pub, famished but preferring not to eat our group’s cold leftovers. At least I hadn’t fallen or knocked anyone unconscious while bobbing around. I’d made a damn good sausage.

  “Wait, that was in Budapest, which was all the crazier since Heidi was Swiss, not Hungarian.”

  “Is Budapest safe?” I asked.

  Gretchen rolled her green eyes. “It’s Budapest, not Karachi. I’ve been there several times.”

  I felt like an idiot, not just because I was the only one who apparently questioned Budapest’s safety but I had no clue where the hell Karachi was.

  “I’m going there for the first time in the spring,” Declan said, standing next to Gretchen and me seated on barstools. “Working a sales incentive.”

  “I’m so bummed I was already booked.” Gretchen probably thought her pouty expression made her look sexy rather than whiney. “Their Paris trip was so much fun last year.” She flashed Declan a suggestive smile.

  What happened in Paris obviously didn’t stay in Paris. If she started reminiscing about how she’d once had to dress up like a French maid for Declan in Paris, I was outta there.

  “Forgot to tell you, I became a million-miler,” Gretchen told Declan.

  “A million-miler is someone who’s flown a million miles on one airline.” Declan saved me the embarrassment of asking.

  Gretchen had flown a million miles? She didn’t even look thirty, despite her constant frowning and furrowed brow. I had four thousand miles toward my million-miler status, thanks to Rachel signing me up for my first frequent flyer program. I’d only flown twice before—to visit relatives in Phoenix and to Disney World on a family vacation. I wasn’t about to admit the most exotic place I’d ever been was Morocco at Epcot Center.

  The bartender finally arrived with our pints of Guinness. If Rachel were there rather than at the hotel working, we’d be drinking Brecker Dark or Flanagan’s. In the past two days, we’d barely spoken. She’d worked on the eight-hour flight from Chicago while I’d watched movies and gone broke on wine, trying to ignore the turbulence and my first time flying over thousands of miles of water.

  Rachel and I had been fairly close growing up, until she’d graduated college and taken the job at Brecker, and then my ex came along, causing us to grow even further apart. It didn’t appear we’d have time to reconnect on this trip when I really needed someone to confide in.

  I snapped a pic of my first Guinness ever, feeling Gretchen’s mental eye roll that I acted like a tourist. I slipped the Guinness coaster in my purse to really send her over the edge.

  The band started singing about whiskey in a jar.

  “To your new elite status.” Declan raised his Guinness, his shirt cuff sliding back, revealing a braided brown leather band with a silver Celtic symbol of interloping knots. Very cool. Maybe I could find a similar one in hot pink or magenta. Although green was a more appropriate color for an Irish souvenir, I didn’t own anything green.

  “Sláinte,” they said, which I guessed meant cheers.

  The beer’s frothy top was deceiving. The thick, dark liquid tasted like beer-flavored coffee. Neither were my favorite beverages. I preferred wine. I’d ordered Guinness to fit in better. As if that were possible.

  “I’m going straight from here to Amsterdam,” Gretchen said. “Working with Paula Wilson. I swear every year I’ll never do her meeting again. Her mom comes on-site to work, and I pick up the slack.” She glared at me over the rim of her glass.

  So Gretchen didn’t like me because she was against nepotism? As if she’d be picking up my slack. Okay, she might be, since I had no clue what I was doing. But she wouldn’t be such a bitch about it if Rachel were there.

  A group of t
ourists posed for a picture with the musicians. Wanting a picture of me in an Irish pub and without a sausage costume on, I asked our waiter to snap a shot of us. We stood in front of the wooden bar with Celtic-patterned stained-glass panels lining the back of it. Declan slipped an arm around my shoulder. Gretchen gave me the evil eye, then cozied up next to him, flashing a fake smile for the camera. Was her issue with me nepotism or jealousy? As if I were after Declan. The fact that he dated Gretchen spoke volumes about his character.

  Besides, a guy was the last thing I wanted.

  We reviewed the pics.

  “That’s a great one,” Gretchen said.

  I stared in horror at the photo. The sausage costume had been a sauna, causing me to sweat off my makeup and my hair to go limp, my bangs flat against my forehead. Gretchen didn’t have a hair out of place, her makeup flawless.

  “Tag me on Facebook,” Declan said. “Well, friend me first.”

  “I’m not on social media.” Which appeared to make me even more of a social outcast.

  “Ah, right, then.” Declan nodded, looking baffled.

  “If you traveled, you’d have to do social media,” Gretchen said. “It’s how you stay connected to family and friends.”

  Yeah, it was how you stayed connected to a stalker.

  The bartender directed Gretchen to the bathroom—up several flights of stairs, down some hallways, and through two doors. Hopefully, she’d end up in England, unable to find her way back.

  A dark-haired guy in a Jameson T-shirt passing by came to an abrupt halt, his glassy blue-eyed gaze narrowing on Declan. He slapped Declan on the back. “Hey, mate. How’s the craic?”