by Ann Denton
I’ll mess with your instruments, the naughty part of my mind says. But, of course, I do not say that out loud. Out loud, I just squeak, “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t know.” I give a nervous chuckle.
Alec stares hard at me for a moment, causing my nervous giggles to increase. Dammit.
He finally releases me and goes back to flipping dials and talking to someone through his headset.
I collapse back in my seat. My heart’s beating like I ran a marathon. Damn. I haven’t been this attracted to a guy since… since the liar. My eyes narrow as I hear Heather and Danny chatting happily behind me. I huff and grab a notebook out of my bag and start flipping through it, reviewing the zillion reservations I’ve made. I cross and uncross my legs, deciding airport jet seats aren’t all that comfortable. At least not in the cockpit.
When Alec’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, I nearly jump out of my seat.
He announces that we’re cleared for takeoff to Thais Island.
I start to buckle up.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Alec glances over at me before swiping at some buttons on his touchscreen.
“What?” I ask as I pull my belt tight.
“Those things just provide the illusion of safety. If we fall from the sky at 800 miles per hour—”
A zillion screaming visuals assault my mind. All of them involve horrid fiery crashes that end up with us smacking into the ocean at full speed. I hold up a hand. “I like my illusion of safety, thanks.”
Alec nods and gets back to work.
I sit there, trying to avoid thinking about all the ways we could crash. I try to distract myself and think of the last movie I saw Chris Hemsworth in. Then the last movie I saw him shirtless. That works. I shake my head as the fear clears up. Why did he have to say that? “I think you may have ruined flying for me,” I scold.
“I was hoping you’d get pissed enough at me to go sit back with your friend, actually,” Alec confesses.
My heart falls. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you?”
His eyes flicker over to me, but he doesn’t make eye contact. His eyes dance across my legs before he looks back at his instruments. “More like … distracting.” He swallows and I watch his throat contract.
There’s something adorably nervous about that. This big brute of a man being distracted by me. I lean forward as we pull out of the hangar and onto the runway. “You’re kicking me out of your cockpit?” I smack my hands over my mouth when I realize how dirty that sounds.
Alec gives me a full-blown smile as he pulls back the controls and we taxi down the runway.
I get caught up in his smile for a second before I realize—shit. We’re about to take off. My heartrate spikes. My hands clamp down on the armrests. I close my eyes take a deep breath and blow it out slowly through my lips.
Next to me Alec growls.
My eyes pop open and I glance over, concerned. Is something wrong? Are we about to crash? Nope. His hands aren’t on the controls—WTF!? He’s adjusting himself. There!
He catches me looking and groans again.
“Yup. You are kicked out.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously?” It’s not my fault he … oh, maybe it is. But I didn’t do anything on purpose. “Look, I can’t go back there. I won’t talk. Okay?”
I yank down my skirt, but the motion draws his eyes to my chest and he just clutches the joystick in his right hand harder. “Go. Now.”
Ass! I didn’t even do anything. But, if I’m distracting him, fine. I’ll go. I don’t want the stupid plane to crash. I’ll go and sit with the sharks. I look back and I see Heather eyeing me gleefully. I glare at her as I unbuckle my seat.
“Fine. Send me away. But you saw how I plan revenge on those who piss me off.” I grab my bag and shuffle into the aisle.
I start to walk away, and I hear Alec mutter, “Revenge sex.”
I whirl around to watch him. “What?” My heart pitter patters in my chest. Nervously. Did Alec just say he wanted revenge sex? My entire body clenches at the thought of clutching his bulging biceps.
Alec doesn’t look back at me as we gain speed down the runway. “Revenge sucks. You should give it up.”
I’m strangely disappointed that the hot guy I just met didn’t actually proposition me for revenge sex. Dammit brain. Get out of the gutter. I stick out my tongue at Alec. But only because he can’t see it.
I walk down the aisle and plonk down as far from Heather’s smug face and Danny’s curious one as I can get. Now I’m pissed at her for breaking up with Jeremy, too.
I haven’t had sex in weeks and now I’m having horny ass thoughts about a stranger.
Danny stretches and his abs peek out under his shirt. Two strangers! Ugh. I wish just once I could get back at her!
But Alec’s right. Revenge sucks. It sucks because I don’t actually have the guts to get it.
Chapter Seven
I fall asleep. I never knew plane rides could be so lulling. But there’s something about the way we just coast through the air that’s so much more soothing than driving. Maybe because I’m used to driving in Oklahoma, which is an experience that alternates between rattling around on dirt roads and inadvertently clicking my teeth together as I drive on paved roads with potholes the size of a Great Dane. About halfway through the flight, I jolt awake to find a line of drool sliding down my cheek and a jacket tossed over my shoulders. It’s not my jacket. It’s a crumpled, blue, man’s jacket. I sit up.
Danny the liar sits across from me, eating chips and smirking as I wipe my face and glare at him.
“You look cute when you sleep.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
I yawn and stretch my sore neck. I’m too tired to play games right now. Wrong foot is a total understatement. I pull down the jacket when my mind wakes up enough to realize it’s his. I hand it back and say, “Oh?”
Our fingers touch as he takes the jacket from me. And I completely quash whatever sensation that creates. Because the pilot is now better qualified for my nighttime finger fantasies than this Liar-Liar. Even if I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for blonds.
I rub my eyes and try to avoid looking at Danny’s light blue eyes as he stares at me.
“Since we’re going to be working together, I thought it’d be good to bury the hatchet.”
I nod. “Consider it buried.” In your back. “I’ve got to go over some things before we land.”
“I could help. I once worked at a—”
“Are you about to lie?” I ask.
Danny’s head jerks back like I’ve smacked him. His blue eyes widen with hurt and lock onto mine. “Of course not. I think you must be paranoid because of what Ben said. Look, my brother wasn’t telling the truth. He has a bit of a condition, we don’t like to talk about it, but he got in this car accident a few years back. Head on collision when he was driving home late from a deposition.” He rubs his hands together and shakes his head sadly.
Despite myself, I feel a twinge of sympathy.
Danny continues, “He moved in with me because he needed help. He couldn’t walk for a while or anything. I drove him to physical therapy, helped him at home. Anyway, physically, he’s recovered, but sometimes he just kind of gets confused…”
OMG. I was just totally getting sucked into his story. Danny is a damn good storyteller. Fuck. My eyes widen. I cover my mouth and tilt my head as Danny prattles on. He’s as good as a damned TV actor, eyes tearing up when he talks about how proud he was when he helped his brother walk again.
Is he serious? I feel myself waver. This has to be a lie, right? His brother owns a law firm. He couldn’t do that and be unhinged the way Danny’s describing. I laugh nervously as I watch him. This has to be a joke, right? He and Heather and pranking me, testing me … but he’s still talking. Describing his brother’s rough road to recovery, alcoholism … Ok, time to call him out. Time to tell him he’s full of it. I hope Dann
y’s not someone who reacts badly. I mean, his brother called him out before. But the guy could probably take him. I mean, he didn’t have the same muscles—Danny’s muscles are on display in his casual sports attire, cut calf muscles, thick forearms, bulging biceps—but his brother was able to tell him off without Danny turning into a fist-wielding crazy. Hopefully I can, too. But I don’t want to make him too mad. I just have to say it gently. Nicely. I take a deep breath—
“Five grand down,” Heather calls out from her seat across the aisle.
I glare over at her and her unruffled hair and her non-drooly, now rich-girl face. What a bitch! “I was about to tell him.”
“You were not. You did your nervous laugh. You were about to say, ‘Oh, really? I didn’t think your brother was that bad.’ Or some other bullshit.”
“Was not!”
“Yeah you were.”
“You can’t just take away five grand because I didn’t call him out fast enough.”
Heather holds a hand to her ear, “What’s that? Did you want to go down ten?”
I see red. I clench my fists. “This is why I said I didn’t want your money. Mixing money and friendship is a bad idea.”
“I agree,” Danny shrugs. “Mixing family and money is a bad idea, too. You have no idea what a monster my brother is. He’s borrowed so much cash—”
“Lie.” The word is out of my mouth before I process.
“Nope. Not a lie,” Danny says. But his face droops a bit. “I really don’t try to lie all the time. And it’s only ever about little things.”
My eyes widen. I swallow. But no frickin’ way I’m letting Heather dock another five grand from my pay. I sigh and force the words out of my mouth. “That’s a lie. You just said your brother got in a car wreck. That’s not a little lie.”
Danny shakes his head. “He did! That wasn’t a lie.”
I turn to glare at Heather. “He says he told the truth. How the hell do you know?”
“I text Ben and ask,” she shrugs, pointing at the cell phone in her lap. Then she takes a sip of a mimosa that she somehow got from somewhere.
I want a mimosa. And some Tylenol. I’m gonna need it, dealing with these two. I tilt my head and stare at Heather. “Since I’m running this shindig for you, I’m technically his boss, right?” I’ll just order the fucker not to talk to me. If he can’t talk, he can’t lie. Can’t lie, then I can’t lose five G.
Heather gives me an evil grin. “Nope. He reports directly to me.”
My eyes narrow as my anger shifts from Danny to her. “Excuse me.” I grab my computer bag and march up to the cockpit. I throw myself down in the co-pilot’s seat.
“What—”
“Deal with it,” I snap. “I cannot be back there right now.”
Alec turns back to his instruments. “They deserve worse than donkey sex revenge?”
“Way way worse.”
“Might I suggest the mating of ostracods? They vomit to attract the opposite sex.”
A huge, earsplitting grin crosses my face.
“That sounds awesome.”
Alec takes a second to turn his gorgeous head and smile at me. “I’ll set it up. But, one condition. You have to come. So, we can watch them together.”
My “hell yes” is only the tiniest bit breathy. Fucking shit. Is it too fast to fall for a guy in a couple hours? I mean, hotness and revenge in a single package? What more could a woman want?
Honesty, the wounded part of my heart shouts from the tiny little box where I’ve locked it up. You want honesty. And loyalty—
I shove that bitch back in her box and smile at Alec.
I only need those if things get serious.
And that is never gonna happen.
Chapter Eight
Alec drops us off at the island midday. It is glorious. White sand, water so clear you can see the seashells in the sand three feet below the surface of the waves, hills with gorgeous tropical foliage (that I’m pretty certain has all been imported). But, the ambiance … I feel like I’ve just stepped onto a movie set. Like there’s no way this could be real life. I’ve grown up with hills, lakes, trees and green galore, but it does not compare. There’s salt in the breeze and everything just smells cleaner, better, magical. If that’s a thing. I take a photo with my phone and text it to Olivia. She texts back: I hate you.
I send a smiley.
She texts me: Also, some weird big ass looking dudes came by mom and dad’s asking about Heather.
I roll my eyes. Probably more fake family members trying to get cash.
Don’t worry. Mom shot them down. She said they were scary looking.
I laugh and text her back: I can’t imagine anything scarier than mom.
Right? Ok. At work. Have fun.
I let the water lap at my feet for a moment and just soak it all in. I don’t have long to savor the moment though. I help Heather get set up in the master villa and then I get to work.
I spend the next four hours running around like a frizzy-haired monster setting up events, running through the forest to check on all the ‘special activities’ the staff prepped per my instructions, and checking to make sure each villa is clean, has towels, has fresh flowers — I don't trust the local staff. This is my event, and if something goes wrong it's on me. Every room has a plate full of hard candies on the bar table and I end up sneaking some from each room. The pineapple are okay, the blueberry need work. The orange-flavored ones are my favorite. They’re a bright burst of flavor. I suck on them and hum as I straighten tablecloths and plump couch cushions. My annoyance at Heather, and her decision to bring Danny along, fades as I work.
Heather’s always liked to push my buttons when she thinks it will cause me to ‘grow.’ Of course, she and I have very different ideas about healthy growth. She once invited me to a threesome with her and her husband. Her attempt to expand my horizons was my idea of icky weirdness. I did not wanna see Shane Paul’s ding-a-ling no matter how many times I’d heard it described. Nope. Hard pass.
After I’m done with the villas, I go to the big banquet hall in the main villa. The bouquets are breathtaking, and the cutlery is the fanciest I’ve ever seen. I think it might even be silver. I study a fork. It hits me that this is real. I’ve only ever used plastic forks in every wedding I’ve planned. Even on the biggest day of their life, no one in my family could spring for more than barbecue. I trace the side of the fork.
“I hope you’re not about to start combing your hair with that and singing.”
I take my eyes off the fork and realize that there’s a man standing in front of me. The chef’s assistant, I guess. He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. He’s not too tall. Maybe 5’9”. He’s got an impish, guy-next-door look with brown eyes and brown hair, thick scruff and a smile that takes him from normal to handsome.
“The Little Mermaid couldn’t sing,” I correct him as I put down the fork. “She’d lost her voice. You need to brush up on your Disney.”
He chuckles and I immediately fall in love with the sound. Some people just have a laugh that’s infectious. This guy is one of those. You can tell, when he’s happy, he makes everyone around him happy.
I hold out a hand, “I’m Katie McPherson.”
“Kenneth Wilson. Are you one of the new guests?”
“I’m the event planner for this crazy shindig. Katie.”
He shakes my hand with a grin. His hands are scarred and calloused, but for some reason the texture isn’t off-putting. I have to stop myself from turning over his hand and looking at each little scar. He doesn’t call me on my lingering handshake as I clear my throat and drop his hand.
Instead, he smiles and asks, “Shindig?”
“I’m from Oklahoma. Probably gonna end up using a lotta weird words. Just go with it. I was hoping to talk menus with the chef. He hasn’t answered my calls or emails.” We’d booked last minute, sliding into a cancellation after some CEO got fired or something and had to cancel his vacation. I’d cry for him, except
I’m pretty sure he’s gliding around on his golden parachute somewhere. “I’ve been trying to reach the chef to nail down the menu details, but haven’t been able to get through,” I tell Kenneth.
I’d only been able to send emails to the generic staff email, and the kitchen phone had always gone to voicemail I fucking hope the chef was able to get the ingredients for drunken turtle pie for tonight. That’s Heather’s favorite dessert.
“Oh, well, our event manager got called away last week. I think he might have known the man who passed away whose spot you took.”
Kick me in the head. I’m an asshole. I’m so glad I didn’t say anything I just thought about CEOs aloud. I try not to let the alarm show on my face. I put on a fake grin instead.
Kenneth shakes his head. “But even if we had gotten your emails or calls … the head chef here is a little bit of an prima donna.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t do dictation. He creates what feels right for the moment.”
I swallow hard. I blink several times, trying to tamp down on my annoyance. I smile brighter to hide it. “That … wasn’t something the booking agent told me.”
Kenneth bites his lip and shrugs apologetically. “I don’t know what to say. The chef’s a dick.”
I take a deep breath and stare up at the ceiling. The chandeliers look like something out of a fairytale. At least there’s that. But I’d spent like twenty hours on menus, trying to think up shit that would fill guys up and ride the line between fancy and down-home goodness. I’d looked up recipes. Researched. And I hate cooking—even just reading about cooking. I’d fucking googled what the hell ghee was. Because I don’t use ‘clarified butter’ at home, dammit. Who the fuck does?
I lick my lips and press them together. I’m letting myself get too worked up. And it’s not like it’s Kenneth’s fault his boss is some five-star weirdo. Of course, the chef here would be. I should have expected it. He works here on a private island for millionaires who probably bitch like babies over every little thing. Who’d walk all over him if he let them. The chef’s not an asshole. He’s just trying not to have twenty-eight special dishes to prep each night for snobby assholes who only eat fruit if it’s fresh from the orchard. This isn’t a personal attack. This chef doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t know me. This is just how it is. Welcome to dealing with those who deal with richness.