(SASHA)
It is a shock to disembark in Rome after a long flight and hear so much Italian around me. It's not that I was expecting English—it's just odd to hear so much Italian when I'm used to snatches here and there.
"We're never flying coach again," Tyler grumbles after we get through customs. Our fake passports worked beautifully—Miles specials.
"We're undercover," I point out quietly. "We could hardly live it up in first-class the whole way and then disappear into the crowd."
His only answer is a loud, body-shaking yawn that makes passersby sidestep him. Although it's only nine a.m., back home, mornings are not Tyler's preferred time of day. He didn't sleep on the plane and the nine-hour flight has exhausted him.
I did like the way he held my hand tight on take-off and landing. I've been on a few more planes since our first honeymoon and I'm certainly not afraid of flying, but I still don't like leaving my fate in someone else's hands.
