Miles from Misery
The blue light from Hannah's dual monitors reflected in her tired eyes, making her look even paler than usual. She rubbed her temples, her fingers trembling slightly from eight hours of chasing a ghost in the codebase—a single semicolon that had brought an entire server to its knees. Her boss's Slack notifications were still pinging in the background, relentless and demanding, but she finally hit Shutdown. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the hum of the office cooling system and the ache in her lower back.
Across town, Olivia stood in her empty classroom, the smell of chalk dust and floor wax clinging to her clothes. Her desk was a mountain of ungraded essays and "parent-teacher conference" request forms. A particularly difficult afternoon with a disruptive junior had left her voice raspy and her patience paper-thin. She looked at the colorful "Dream Big" poster on the wall and felt a hollow irony. Right now, her only dream was a dark room and twelve hours of sleep.
When the front door of their apartment finally clicked open, they met in the narrow hallway like two survivors of a storm.
Olivia dropped her heavy bag with a thud, her stunning red hair escaping its pins in messy copper waves. Hannah didn't even take off her coat; she just leaned her forehead against Olivia's shoulder.
"I can't do another Monday, Liv," Hannah whispered into the fabric of Olivia's blazer. "I'm coding in my sleep, and I'm losing my mind."
Olivia wrapped her arms around Hannah's waist, pulling her close. "I'm right there with you. I nearly cried because a stapler jammed today. We're beyond burnt out. We're toasted."
They stood there for a long moment, the exhaustion of their respective worlds pressing in on them. They needed more than a weekend. They needed a total escape—somewhere the world couldn't reach them, and where the only requirement was to smile again.
"The vacation time," Olivia murmured, a spark of desperate determination hitting her eyes. "We're using it. All of it. Starting now."
Olivia pulled her laptop onto the sofa, the screen's glow illuminating her tired but hopeful face.
"Four days in Orlando," she said, her voice gaining a bit of its usual melody. "Mickey, Minnie, and absolutely zero teenagers asking me for extra credit."
Hannah smiled, leaning over her shoulder. "Sounds like heaven. But what's the damage? Last I checked, last-minute flights to Florida cost more than my first car."
Olivia's fingers flew across the keys, her brow furrowing as she scrolled past the usual carriers. "Wait... look at this. GiggleJet Airways? I've never heard of them."
She clicked the link. The website was surprisingly elegant—minimalist, with a soft pastel palette and a simple, intriguing motto: "Where your stress takes flight and your spirits soar." The reviews were glowing, nearly perfect scores from every traveler, though the comments were strangely vague. "Life-changing," one wrote. "I haven't smiled this much in a decade," said another.
"They have an Ultra-First Class," Olivia whispered, her eyes widening. She quickly logged into her rewards portal, her heart skipping a beat. "Hannah, look. My travel miles... they're worth triple on this airline. We don't just get a flight. We get the top-tier suite for free. Round trip."
Hannah leaned in, skeptical. "Free? For Ultra-First Class? What's the catch? Is the plane made of cardboard?"
"It says here they're a 'boutique experiential carrier,'" Olivia read aloud. But as she clicked the 'Book Now' button, a digital document popped up, blocking the screen.
CONFIDENTIALITY & NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT
By booking Ultra-First Class with GiggleJet Airways, passengers agree to maintain absolute secrecy regarding the specific nature of our in-flight 'Service with a Smile.' Disclosure of proprietary relaxation techniques to non-members may result in legal action.
"An NDA?" Hannah laughed, though her curiosity was piqued. "What are they doing up there? Serving us illegal vintage wine? Secret government massages?"
"It's only a three-and-a-half-hour flight," Olivia reasoned, her finger hovering over the mouse. "How much 'secret' can they really fit into a few hours? Maybe they just have really, really good chairs."
They looked at each other—two women exhausted by a world that demanded too much of them. The mystery felt like an invitation. With a shared nod and a daring grin, they both typed their digital signatures.
The confirmation screen flashed: Welcome Aboard the GiggleJet. Prepare to leave your worries on the ground.
They spent the next week in a blur of anticipation, packing their brightest summer clothes and ignoring the mounting emails from work. For the first time in years, the "out of office" reply wasn't just a courtesy—it was a promise.
The walk to the gate felt like a journey into a different world. Away from the frantic crowds of the main terminal, the carpet became thicker and the noise of rolling suitcases faded into a soft, ambient hum. At the very end of the terminal sat Gate 69, tucked into a secluded corner. The door to the lounge wasn't the usual brushed steel; it was a deep, matte navy, adorned with two simple, shimmering gold feathers arched into the shape of a smile.
"Subtle," Hannah whispered, adjusting the strap of her carry-on. "I'm getting 'exclusive spa' vibes, not 'budget airline.'"
As they approached the podium, a woman in a crisp, silk uniform stood waiting. She didn't check a computer screen or ask for ID; she simply looked at them and beamed. Her smile was wide, genuine, and just a little bit knowing.
Olivia handed over their digital boarding passes. The woman glanced at them, then back at the two stunning women before her—the fit, brown-haired programmer and the radiant redhead.
"Hannah and Olivia," the attendant purred, her grin widening. "You're the only two on the manifest today. Such lucky, lucky ladies."
She stepped aside and gestured toward the jet bridge, which was lined with soft, recessed lighting. "Prepare to forget everything about the world below. Enjoy your trip."
Hannah and Olivia shared a quick, puzzled look. "The only two?" Olivia mouthed. It was unheard of. A private jet experience for the price of a few miles.
They stepped into the jet bridge, and as the heavy door of the terminal clicked shut behind them, the air changed. It was sweet—hinting at vanilla and something slightly medicinal, yet pleasant. As they reached the aircraft door, a soft, hissing sound greeted them—a gentle mist emanating from the doorframe that made them both feel a sudden, lightheaded flutter of giggles.
They stepped onto the plane, and the door sealed shut with a heavy, pressurized thud.
The cabin was intimate, draped in soft, cream-colored fabrics that absorbed all sound from the outside world. Hannah and Olivia were led to the very front, where two oversized chaise lounges waited. These weren't standard airplane seats; they were wide, upholstered in buttery-soft leather, and sat right next to each other.
"This is insane," Hannah whispered, sinking into the plush cushions. She felt her muscles, tight from years of hunched-over coding, finally begin to slacken.
Three stewardesses hovered nearby, each wearing a uniform that matched the lounge's aesthetic—sleek, silk, and finished with a gold feather brooch. Their expressions were identical: poised, expectant, and radiating that signature, unwavering grin. One stepped forward with a silver tray, presenting two crystal flutes of vintage champagne.
“A toast to your departure," the stewardess said, her voice like velvet. "From this moment on, your only job is to let go."
Olivia took a sip, the bubbles dancing on her tongue. "I think I can manage that."
As the small plane began its quiet taxi toward the runway, the heavy curtain separating their sanctuary from the rest of the cabin was drawn shut and locked. The two other attendants moved with practiced grace, adjusting the headrests of the lounges.
"We want you to be completely comfortable for takeoff," the lead attendant murmured. "Once we reach cruising altitude, the screen in front of you will activate. It will guide you through the first phase of your... integration."
In front of them sat a massive, blacked-out TV screen, its glass surface reflecting the two women. Beside their feet, tucked into discrete compartments in the base of the lounges, they noticed a variety of tools: jars of shimmering oils, silk ribbons, and a collection of long, delicate feathers that seemed to twitch in the cabin's light breeze.
As the engines hummed into a higher pitch and the plane tilted upward, a soft, rhythmic hissing sound began to emanate from the vents directly above their heads. A faint, sweet-smelling vapor began to swirl around them.
Hannah felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh. She looked at Olivia, whose red hair was fanned out against the headrest, and saw her partner's eyes beginning to glaze over with a hazy, happy sheen.
The "giggle gas" was working its magic with surprising speed. A warm, tingly heaviness settled into Hannah's limbs, while Olivia found herself fixated on the way the cabin lights seemed to sparkle like tiny diamonds. Every time the plane hit a pocket of air, they both let out synchronized chirps of laughter that they couldn't quite suppress. Along with the giddiness came a low, pulsing heat—a sudden, sharp awareness of the silk against their skin and the proximity of each other.
They turned their hazy gaze toward their dedicated team. The stewardesses were, quite frankly, breathtaking. The Latina woman had eyes like dark chocolate and a smile that felt like a secret; the Russian woman moved with the icy, feline grace of a ballerina; and the Jamaican woman possessed a radiant, commanding beauty that made the air feel charged.
The screen flickered to life, displaying a golden feather drifting slowly across a deep purple background. Soft, hypnotic music began to pulse through the hidden speakers.
"LEAVE THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD BEHIND," the screen pulsed in elegant gold text. "SURRENDER TO THE SMILE. PLEASE ALLOW YOUR HOSTS TO PREPARE YOU FOR THE TRANSITION."
"Robes?" Olivia giggled, her voice sounding far away to her own ears. "We're going to Disney... why do we need... robes?" She dissolved into a fit of laughter as the Latina stewardess stepped between their lounges.
"Because, Olivia," the woman whispered, her accent thick and honeyed, "you cannot soar if you are still wearing the armor of your office."
With practiced, nimble fingers, the attendants began to undress them. Hannah felt the cool air of the cabin hit her skin as her blouse was unbuttoned, followed quickly by the warmth of a plush, oversized robe being slipped over her shoulders. The Latina woman knelt at the base of the lounges, her hands firm yet gentle as she slid the shoes from their feet.
As her bare soles were exposed to the cabin air, Hannah felt a frantic skip in her heart. The stewardess didn't just set the shoes aside; she cradled Hannah's foot for a moment, her thumb tracing the arch with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a jolt of electricity straight to Hannah's core.
Olivia watched, her head lolling back against the cushion, a wide, dazed grin on her face. "Is this... the massage part?" she managed to ask, her breath hitching as the Jamaican woman began to loosen the tie of her own robe.
The Russian stewardess leaned in close, her lips almost brushing Olivia's ear. "This is the part where you stop thinking," she murmured. "And start feeling."
On the screen, the golden feather vanished, replaced by a close-up image of a pair of feet being brushed by a single, white quill.
The hiss of the gas intensified, a sweet, hazy cloud that turned their initial giggles into deep, rhythmic gasps of laughter. When the Jamaican stewardess guided their arms above their heads, neither resisted. The silk ties felt cool and soft as they were looped around their wrists and secured to the frame of the chaise lounges. It wasn't a tight restraint, but a firm suggestion: stay still and receive.
The massive screens in front of them flickered, splitting into two high-definition feeds. Hannah and Olivia gasped in unison—the cameras were positioned at the base of their lounges, providing a crystal-clear, magnified view of their own bare soles. Every line of their arches and every curve of their toes was on display.
"Oh my god," Olivia exhaled, her pupils blown wide. The arousal was hitting her in waves now, fueled by the gas and the sheer Taboo of the situation.
Then, the "Service with a Smile" took a breathtaking turn.
Without a word, the three women began to disrobe. The Latina's uniform fell away first, followed by the Russian's and the Jamaican's.
They stood in the center of the small cabin wearing nothing but tiny, matching silk panties. Their breasts were full and firm, swaying slightly with the gentle vibration of the plane.
Olivia's breath hitched. As a high school teacher, she spent her life being buttoned-up and professional, but she had a secret—a deep, carnal obsession with feet. Seeing these three goddesses standing there was one thing, but as they stepped closer, she realized their feet were flawless: high arches, perfectly pedicured toes, and skin that looked like polished marble.
She caught Hannah's eye. Hannah's face was flushed a deep crimson, her chest heaving under her robe. She saw the way Hannah's gaze was glued to the Russian woman's feet. She has it too, Olivia realized with a jolt of thrill. She's been hiding it just like me.
"You both have such beautiful foundations," the Russian woman purred, stepping onto the elevated platform at the foot of Hannah's lounge. "It would be a shame to let all that tension stay trapped inside them."
The Latina woman approached Olivia, holding a crystal bowl filled with shimmering, warmed oil. She dipped her fingers in and let the golden liquid drip slowly onto Olivia's heel. On the screen, the drop looked like a falling sun, splashing against her skin in slow motion.
"Now," the Jamaican woman whispered, picking up a long, iridescent peacock feather and a fine-bristled brush. "Let's see how much magic it takes to make you scream."
The sensation was unlike anything they had ever felt—a delicate, maddening electricity that seemed to bypass their brains and go straight to their nerves. The Russian and the Latina stewardesses leaned in close, their long, manicured fingers dipping into the warmed oil before making the first contact.
On the high-definition screens, Hannah and Olivia watched their own feet with a detached, gas-induced wonder. Hannah's soles were elegant and lithe, with high, vulnerable arches that tensed and rippled the moment the first feather touched them. Olivia's feet were slightly smaller, her skin a pale, milky contrast to the dark wood of the lounge, with rounded heels and incredibly sensitive, pink-tinged toes. The oil made their skin glisten under the cabin lights, highlighting every tiny ridge and wrinkle of their footprints.
Then the feathers began their work. The Jamaican woman held a pair of ostrich plumes, flicking the soft, wispy barbs rhythmically across the balls of their feet. The sensation was agonizingly soft, a ghostly tease that made their toes curl and uncurl in a desperate attempt to find purchase. As the feathers slid between their toes, brushing against the tender, paper-thin skin of the webs, Hannah let out a high-pitched, helpless peal of laughter.
"Please," she gasped, her body arching against the silk restraints. "It's... it's too much..."
"It's only the beginning, Hannah," the Russian woman whispered, switching from a feather to a fine-bristled brush. She began a slow, circular scrubbing motion right in the center of Hannah's arch.
On the screen, the visual was hypnotic. They could see the way their skin reacted to the stimulation—the tiny goosebumps forming, the way the toes flared out in surprise. The tickling was relentless, a sensory overload that was perfectly balanced between torture and ecstasy. Every flick of a quill or drag of a fingernail sent a fresh jolt of arousal through them, the giggle gas turning their frantic laughter into a primal, needy sound.
Olivia watched the Latina stewardess use her own thumb to apply deep, circular pressure to her heel while simultaneously fluttering a tiny down feather across the very tips of her toes. The contrast—the firm oiling and the light, maddening tickle—pushed Olivia to the brink. She looked at the three women, their nearly nude bodies glowing in the soft light, and felt a surge of pure, unadulterated desire.
"You're both doing so well," the Jamaican woman cooed, her eyes fixed on the screen as she synchronized her movements. "But the GiggleJet experience requires a total release. Are you ready to let go?"
The cabin temperature seemed to skyrocket as the three women moved in unison, closing the distance between the lounges. With a graceful, synchronized motion, they reached out and parted the heavy silk of Hannah's and Olivia's robes. The cool air hitting their damp, flushed skin was a shock, but it was immediately replaced by the maddeningly soft trail of feathers.
The Russian and Jamaican women began to work upward, their plumes dancing over the sensitive hollows of Hannah's and Olivia's underarms. The tickling there was sharper, more frantic, causing them both to writhe against their silk bonds, their laughter turning into breathless, needy whimpers. Then, the feathers moved to their breasts, circling the areolas with agonizing slowness before the soft barbs flicked directly across their hardening nipples.
"Oh god, Liv..." Hannah choked out, her head thrashing from side to side as a fresh wave of giggle gas made the ceiling seem to swirl with color.
Below them, the Latina stewardess had surrendered to the heat. She knelt between the two lounges, her dark hair falling over her shoulders as she reached for Olivia's foot first. She didn't just touch it; she took Olivia's oiled, sensitive big toe into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it while her fingers continued to scratch and tease the arch of the other foot.
The screens in front of them captured every detail of the decadence. Olivia watched, her eyes wide and glazed, as she saw her own toes being worshipped by the stunning woman. The combination of the deep, wet suction on her feet and the light, electric scratching on her underarms was a sensory short-circuit.
Hannah wasn't spared. The Russian woman leaned over her, her large, firm breasts brushing against Hannah's ribs as she used her fingernails to trace light, torturous patterns down Hannah's stomach, heading toward the hem of her panties. The Jamaican woman followed behind with a brush, keeping the soles of Hannah's feet in a constant state of vibrating sensitivity.
"The flight is short, ladies," the Jamaican woman whispered, her voice husky with the shared energy of the cabin. "We really must ensure you arrive in Orlando completely... satisfied."
The Latina moved her attention to Hannah's feet, her tongue tracing the deep, sensitive line of her arch, while her free hands reached up to find the damp centers of their silk panties. The friction, the tickling, and the overwhelming scent of the oil and gas pushed them both to the absolute precipice.
The Latina's eyes locked onto Olivia's, flashing a look of pure, predatory playfulness. She saw the hunger in the redhead's gaze—the way Olivia was mesmerized by the flawless, olive-skinned feet of the woman who was currently worshipping her own.
"I see you, Olivia," the stewardess cooed, her voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to sync with the drone of the jet engines. "I see how much you like what you're looking at. We want you to feel every inch of this flight."
She shifted her position, gracefully lifting one of her own feet and resting it on the edge of Olivia's lounge, right near her face. Her arch was high, her sole a soft, unlined pink, glistening slightly with the ambient humidity of the cabin.
"What if we make a trade?" she whispered, her hands sliding upward from Olivia's knees to the sensitive, inner silk of her thighs. "I will keep your blood pumping right here... while you taste just how sweet a GiggleJet flight can be."
Olivia didn't need to be asked twice. The combination of the gas, the silk restraints, and her own long-suppressed desires snapped. She leaned forward as far as the ties would allow, her breath hot against the stewardess's smooth sole. As her tongue made contact with the arch, a muffled moan escaped her throat.
Beside her, Hannah was being driven into a frenzy. The Russian woman had intensified the feather-work on Hannah's ribs and underarms, while the Jamaican woman used both hands to rhythmically squeeze and tease her soles.
Hannah's fit body was arched high off the lounge, her heels digging into the cushions as the dual stimulation of her chest and feet sent her into a spiraling, laughing delirium.
The screens were now a blur of motion—the Latina's hands moving higher on Olivia's thighs, the Russian's fingers dancing over Hannah's skin, and the constant, hypnotic flicker of feathers against oiled soles.
"That's it, ladies," the Jamaican woman urged, her voice commanding yet sweet. "Don't fight the smile. Don't fight the heat. We're at peak altitude now... let it take you."
The sensation of the stewardess's toes against her lips combined with the expert, firm pressure on her inner thighs pushed Olivia over the edge. She felt the first spark of an orgasm ignite in her core, radiating outward to her sensitive, tickled feet. At the same moment, Hannah let out a piercing, joyous scream of laughter as she reached her own first peak, her entire body vibrating under the relentless, feathered assault.
The cabin was now a storm of tangled limbs and intoxicating scents. The Latina stewardess leaned back, propping her heels right against Olivia's cheeks, her toes wiggling enticingly. As her fingers slipped beneath the damp silk of Olivia's panties to circle her throbbing core, she let out a playful, melodic laugh.
"Don't just watch, Olivia," she teased, her voice breathy. "The gas makes everything funny, doesn't it? Make me laugh. Use that tongue and show me how much you appreciate the service."
Olivia, her mind a hazy fog of pleasure, didn't hesitate. She began to swirl her tongue deep into the Latina's high, sensitive arches, her own body bucking as the finger-work at her center intensified.
Next to them, the Jamaican woman followed suit, presenting her own flawless, dark-skinned soles to Hannah. "You too, programmer," she whispered, her eyes dancing. "Let's see if you can find the 'logic' in this."
As Hannah began to worship the Jamaican woman's feet, the Russian stewardess moved like a ghost between the two lounges. She picked up a fresh set of long, stiff peacock quills and began a frantic, fluttering assault on all four women. She flicked the feathers across the Latina's ribs, then down to Hannah's sensitive underarms, then back to the soles of the Jamaican woman.
The screen showed a chaotic, beautiful symphony of movement. Four sets of feet were now in motion—some being licked, some being tickled, all of them glistening with oil.
"Oh god, it's too much!" Hannah shrieked, her laughter echoing through the small cabin. The sensation of the Russian's feathers on her skin, combined with the taste of the Jamaican woman's feet and the rhythmic stimulation between her legs, was a total system overload.
The Latina was giggling now too, her toes curling against Olivia's face as the Russian's feathers found her most ticklish spots. "Yes! That's it! More!" she gasped.
The vibration of the plane seemed to pulse in time with their heartbeats. Every time Olivia or Hannah tried to catch their breath, a new feather flicked across a nipple or a tongue traced a sensitive toe-web, sending them crashing back into a state of high-arousal delirium. Their pussy lips were swollen and pulsing, weeping with a need that the "Service with a Smile" was more than happy to meet.
"Two hours to go," the Russian woman purred, her feathers never stopping their maddening dance. "And we haven't even brought out the brushes yet."
The middle hour of the flight became a blur of shimmering skin, high-pitched laughter, and relentless sensory play. The "GiggleJet" cabin was no longer just an airplane; it was a sanctuary of pure, unadulterated hedonism.
Hannah and Olivia lost track of who was touching whom as the roles of server and guest melted away. One moment, Hannah was pinned back by the Russian's firm grip, her feet being systematically "tortured" with stiff-bristled brushes that made her toes splay and her body thrash in ecstatic agony. The next, she found herself with the Jamaican woman's soft, arched foot in her lap, returning the favor with a silk-gloved hand that sent the stewardess into fits of melodic, deep-bellied laughter.
Olivia was in a state of total sensory bliss. The Latina stewardess had surrendered completely to the redhead's touch, her legs draped over Olivia's shoulders while Olivia's fingers and tongue worked in a synchronized rhythm that pushed them both to the brink. All the while, the third stewardess kept a constant, light fluttering of feathers over their moist, sensitive mounds, ensuring the arousal never dipped below a fever pitch.
The cabin was thick with the scent of expensive oils and the sweet, lingering haze of the gas. On the screens, the close-up visuals of their pulsing, slick centers and curling, oiled toes created a feedback loop of desire.
"I've never... I can't... I'm going to lose it again!" Olivia wailed, her laughter turning into a needy sob as the Russian woman used her fingernails to trace the incredibly sensitive skin just behind her knees while simultaneously flicking a feather across her clitoris.
It was a chain reaction. When the Jamaican woman finally hit her peak, her toes curling so hard they cramped, it sent a jolt through Hannah, whose own body buckled in a massive, rolling orgasm that felt like it lasted for miles. The Latina followed, her cries of pleasure muffled against Olivia's neck as they both spiraled into a shared, shuddering release.
By the time the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom—sounding suspiciously cheerful—to announce their initial descent into Orlando, the five women were a tangled, panting heap of silk and skin. Hannah and Olivia lay back on their lounges, their limbs feeling like warm jelly, their skin humming with a residual electricity they had never known existed.
"We hope you enjoyed the first half of your journey," the Russian woman whispered, her voice raspy from laughing, as she began to use a warm, damp cloth to gently wipe the excess oil from their glowing feet. "But remember... you have a return flight in four days. You'll want to save a little energy for the trip home."
As the plane tilted forward, beginning its slide down through the Florida clouds, Hannah reached out and took Olivia's hand. They were exhausted, they were sore in the best way possible, and for the first time in years, the "misery" of their daily lives felt like a dream they had woken up from a lifetime ago.
As the plane's wheels made their final, smooth contact with the Orlando tarmac, the "GiggleJet" team moved with silent, graceful efficiency. The haze of the gas began to lift, replaced by a crisp, oxygen-rich flow that cleared their heads but left the euphoria buzzing in their veins.
The three stewardesses, now perfectly dressed back in their sleek navy uniforms, worked in unison to tend to their guests. The Russian woman used chilled, rose-scented towels to wipe the sweat from Hannah's brow and the lingering oil from their incredibly sensitive feet. The Latina and Jamaican women helped them back into their clothes, their touch now soft and maternal, a stark contrast to the maddening play from an hour before.
"Hydration is key after such a... high-altitude workout," the Latina whispered, handing them each a crystal glass of ice-cold mineral water.
Hannah and Olivia sat up, their legs feeling light and tingly, as if they were walking on air before their feet even touched the ground. When they looked at each other, they didn't see the tired programmer or the burnt-out teacher. They saw two women who looked ten years younger, their eyes bright and their skin radiating a literal, shimmering glow.
As they stepped through the cabin door and back into the terminal, the transition was jarring. The airport was the usual sea of gray suits and stressed families, but as Hannah and Olivia walked through the terminal toward baggage claim, the crowd seemed to part like the Red Sea.
Travelers stopped in their tracks. Security guards blinked in confusion. People whispering into cell phones went silent. The two women weren't just walking; they were gliding, their faces fixed in a serene, secret half-smile that spoke of a pleasure most people would never know. They looked like goddesses who had accidentally wandered into a bus station.
"Liv," Hannah whispered, leaning in as they reached the sun-drenched exit of the airport, the Florida heat finally hitting them. "I think the mouse has his work cut out for him. How is a rollercoaster supposed to top that?"
Olivia laughed, a rich, genuine sound that made a passing tourist drop his suitcase in surprise. She squeezed Hannah's hand, her thumb tracing the palm in a way that promised even more to come.
"Disney will be great for the photos," Olivia said, her eyes flashing with a playful, wicked glint. "But honestly? I'm already counting down the ninety-six hours until we have to board the GiggleJet for the flight home."
