Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Emma rolls her eyes. “When are you going to strike out on your own?”
“Soon.” In fact, escaping Tierre’s clutches for good was my New Year’s resolution this year, but I just haven’t been able to get focused and work on my own designs—which is kind of important if you want to become a designer.
“Anyway,” Emma says, realizing she’s touched on a sensitive topic. “To answer your question: no. I don’t mind if you don’t fly with us.”
It’s my turn to grin. “You’re probably going to be snuggling your husband-to-be the whole time anyway.”
As usual in this type of situation, Emma’s cheeks become the color of her hair.
“Floriduh?” Tierre tries to wrinkle his nose, but it is still too swollen from his most recent rhinoplasty. “Must you?”
“It’s for my best friend’s wedding.” And I have unused vacation days, so this shouldn’t even be a debate.
“Why can’t she have the wedding in Paris?” he asks.
“I have no idea.”
He sighs theatrically. “When is it then?”
I tell him.
“But… that’s when Fifi needs to be taken to the vet.”
Fifi is his pet chameleon who sees a reptile expert that I like to call He Who Must Not Be Named. “Have the intern take her.”
“Fifi doesn’t like that mopey bitch,” Mr. Boss says with a straight face. “She’s used to you taking her.”
I set my jaw and meet his gaze. “I can’t miss this wedding.”
If that means he fires me, so be it. It’s not like I have much more to learn from Tierre as far as designing goes, and my pay has never gotten to the point where it could cover more than my food and utility bills.
“Fine,” Tierre says magnanimously. “You may go to Florida. But if you get eaten by a shark, don’t come crying to me.”
Chapter 14
Kendall
On my distinctly non-private flight to Florida, I sit in the middle seat between a woman with a screaming baby and a guy who must be allergic to soap.
I blame Ashton for this misery. If it weren’t for him, I’d be on a private plane. The gentlemanly thing to do would’ve been for him to refuse to fly private, not the other way around.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your flight attendant speaking. Boarding is now complete.”
Yep. It’s officially too late to escape. Maybe I can hold my breath for the duration while plugging my ears?
My phone rings.
“Hey, Ems!” I exclaim after gladly fishing it out of my bag. “What’s up? They’re about to ask us to turn off our phones.”
For whatever reason, the baby stops crying long enough to give me a dirty look.
“Oh, you’ve boarded,” Emma says. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you passed security.”
“Why?”
“As it turns out, Ashton is not going with us, so if you want to join us, you can.”
Crap. “It’s too late. They won’t let me off now.”
“Oh,” Emma says. “Well, that sucks.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “If I’d known sooner—”
“I just found out,” she says. “Apparently, Ashton just told Marcus today.”
“What an asshole.”
“Actually, Marcus thinks Ashton bailed for your sake.”
“Yeah, right.” That would make him a gentleman, but I doubt he knows the definition of the word.
Unless… he wants to avoid me. Which would be extra assholey of him.
“Well, I have to run,” Emma says. “See you later.”
“Yeah. Looking forward to it.”
I hang up and take the next few breaths through my mouth—a bad idea because now instead of smelling my neighbor, I’m tasting him.
Miserable, I sit and watch the clouds cover the disappearing ground beneath us as the plane takes off.
As soon as the captain turns off the safety belt warning, the stinky guy leaps to his feet and heads to the bathroom—where he’ll hopefully wash some part of his body for the first time this year.
I get up to stretch my legs and decide to use the bathroom as well. All the ones in economy class are occupied, so I confidently walk—a.k.a. sneak—into the first-class section of the plane.
Confidence is key here, and designer clothes help as well. Nobody stops me as I walk past the first-class passengers. That is, until a deep, impossibly familiar male voice says, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I freeze and whip my head to the left. I’m hoping I’m mistaken, but I’m not.
A pair of blue-gray eyes stares at me out of an annoyingly handsome face.
It’s Mr. Manwhore himself, sitting with an open laptop on the table in front of him.
What the fuck is he doing here? And how did I not see him first?
“You’re here?” I manage through clenched teeth.
His expression is just as displeased. “Clearly,” he says, and now that I know that it’s there, I can totally see the old money upbringing as he narrows his eyes at me. “And I could have been on Marcus’s plane, which has a pool table.”
I put my hands on my hips. “So it’s true. You tried to avoid me?”