Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
I’m prepared like a horny Girl Scout.
BLAIR
Now
“Folks, we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet. I’ve turned the seat belt sign off for now, but ask that you remain seated as much as possible.” The captain warns, “We might have some chop ahead.”
Did he say chop?
Or death?
I tug my seat belt tighter.
“You alright there, Kitten?” Beau catches my terrified gesture.
I don’t care if we’re sitting in luxury in the sky. It’s still the sky, and gravity still works. It’s my second time on a plane, and I start regretting eating eggs over easy for breakfast.
“I’m fine,” I lie, trying not to focus on our imminent plunge into the ocean.
Across from me in his recliner is Beau, smiling, looking way too sexy, and five minutes from his forced beach vacation. He’s sporting a thin, white V-neck T-shirt, giving me peeks of those carved pecs dusted with dark hair that make me feral. His khaki shorts are relaxed over his flexing quads, and his flips flop over groomed feet.
Yes, even Beau’s toes are turn-ons.
Across the aisle from us in matching recliners are Colton and Amber. I gotta admit they’re the best distraction when you fear death any second.
It’s like studying a masterpiece painting from the What The Fuck era.
Colton Hawke looks like Thor had a baby with Ink Master. He’s big for a wide receiver but still exceptionally fast—even I know that—and that’s what makes him one of the greatest in the league.
But come on. Football doesn’t impress me.
So, is it his dark blond hair that falls past his broad shoulders? Nope. His trim beard? No. His features that look like a Nordic god who can smash you to bits, or the tattoos from his knuckles, up his beefy arms, disappearing under his lavender t-shirt? Nah.
It’s his eyes.
They’re deep brown and tender. They avoided Beau but greeted me with genuine kindness as if he already knew me.
So why is this colossal, sweet hunk dating an enormous ego slut?
Don’t judge my judging.
I’m using empirical evidence.
Amber Kostas has posted sixty out of the ninety minutes so far on this flight. She chats to her socials, sucking her cheeks in, sharing contouring tips and warnings like it’s live news of a possible nuclear make-up meltdown.
Here I am with a ponytail and no makeup except for my red lips, though I’m so nervous I must be fifty shades of green. But Amber? She shimmers all blonde in a million shades of blended bronze.
Hell, I thought a tan was free, but apparently, as Amber informs us and her followers, her natural bronze costs one hundred and five dollars from Hermès.
Beau’s killer blues threaten to permanently roll to the back of his skull. Colton tunes her out with his Bose headphones on and eyes closed. And I thought people can’t use their phones on planes, but when it’s a private jet to Belize, you are free to annoy the shit out of everyone.
Jimmy Williams, the head coach of Atlanta, and his wife, Maureen, are seated on a sofa toward the front of the jet while the flight attendant starts pouring champagne.
Apparently, the Williams are turning Beau and Colton’s forced retreat into their vacation. They’ll stay on the mainland while we are stuck on an island with Amber, the CNN of Cosmetics.
“Enjoy this round, folks.” Coach Williams raises a full flute. “There’s no alcohol on the retreat.”
“What?” Amber whips around, snapping at him, “I didn’t agree to that.”
“Your ass is in that seat,” Beau grumbles. “That’s your cushy agreement right there.”
“We need clear heads,” Coach lectures, “and no distractions. That means no social media posts from the island either.”
“But I have to maintain my brand,” Amber whines before kicking Colton’s feet. He jumps, yanking his headphones down to hear her bitch, “You didn’t tell me no alcohol and social media. How am I supposed to survive?”
“On air, water, and food,” Beau grumbles again, and I choke down my snort.
Clearly, Beau doesn’t like Amber. In one hour, I understand why, but I suspect there’s more.
“I did tell you,” Colton glowers at her attitude. “You just didn’t listen.”
“Well, I don’t play for Atlanta,” Amber snips, “so I’ll do as I please.”
“When you’re on Atlanta’s dime,” Coach corrects, “you’ll follow the same rules, or you’re out.”
I like his version of the NFL Survivor show. Amber is definitely my first vote off the island. I won’t survive ten days of her vocal fry voice and baked delusion because the world is her phone screen, and we’re all just her followers.
But me?
I got my laptop, my loaded ereader, two empty journals, my favorite Micron pens, a bunch of Target sundresses and fancy La Perla bikinis Vale insisted I “sample” for Delta’s.
And once Beau told me we didn’t have to suffer luggage scans at a private airport, I packed a hardshell case full of sex toys, dildos, lingerie, and my hairdryer.
Don’t mess with a pro.
I know how to win the Tempting Bet with Beau. I’m prepared like a horny Girl Scout. His big dick will be testing me every waking hour, so I brought vibrating survival gear.
Now, do I want to be with Beau Bronson again and always? Is this plane flying five hundred miles an hour toward my watery grave?
Yes.
Will I?
Sure.
I’ll survive sex with Beau again like I’ll survive wearing a little yellow inflatable vest with a plastic whistle in the middle of the fastest ocean current in the world when we go down.
But was I shocked that Beau asked me to go with him on his forced luxury vacation?
No.
I’ve protected his secret for so long, I understand. I may not fuck him again, but I’ll always sorta love him.
A lot.
Because the tension between Beau and Colton has its own latitude and longitude.
The only one oblivious to it is Amber. But if it ever makes it to her Instagram feed, she’ll dedicate the latest viral dance to it with her blonde bestie. Don’t worry.
I watch Beau, who alternates his stare between me and the window. This is hard on him. I can tell.
I’ll never forget the pain in his eyes that senior night in college. His lush bottom lip was busted, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Can I come in?” He trembled with torment in my dorm’s doorway. “I know Reese isn’t here. I came for you.”
I didn’t answer. I just wrapped around him while he buried his face in my neck, his hidden tears wetting my flesh.
“I just lost my best friend again,” he said while we laid together on my twin bed in our shorts and T-shirts, sharing a pillow while Beau stared into my eyes. “He, uh. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. We did some stuff like we did in high school. But we can’t be together. And afterward, when I reminded him, he got mad again. We got in a fight. Said some mean shit. I swear we punched each other at the same time. So I had to walk away. So did he.”
I traced over his swollen lip. “Do you love him?”
The relief that flooded Beau’s eyes that I wasn’t judging him, that I cared, that I supported him? “Yes,” he answered. “I love him. I have to secretly love him.” He paused. “Like I secretly love you, Blair.”
Beau’s deep blue eyes vulnerably searched mine and found that place hidden in my heart for two years.
“I love you, too,” I murmured, letting my tears and secret escape. “But we can’t, Beau. We can’t hurt Reese. She’s too delicate. She’s too close to graduating.”
“She’s been acting strange,” he said. “Like she’s been avoiding me for weeks, like something’s wrong.”
“Sadly, something’s always wrong with her, and you can’t fix her. Only she can.”
He caressed a lock of my hair. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“Not get what we want.” I couldn’t stop touching his lips. Lips I couldn’t kiss but was dying to. “It hurts, but it won’t kill us.”
He nuzzled his forehead to mine. “You know I give you hell because you’d be my heaven.”
I nuzzled my nose against his. “You know I hate you because you kinda make me love you.”
We slept like that, holding each other, but when I awoke, Beau was gone. Still, I felt so special because he left his secret safe with me. It’ll always be, and that’s what makes this bittersweet.
I’m here to help Beau deny his love for Colton and me.
But I won’t have to do it long. We’re about to die. A hard jolt shakes the plane. My stomach drops, and, “Jesus, take the wheel,” I yelp.
The seatbelt light chimes, and we’ve flown into the eighth circle of hell. Then it becomes the ninth circle because Amber starts yapping at her phone, wrestling with the existential debate of matte versus glossy lipstick while our tiny jet is a yo-yo at thirty thousand feet.
“Hey.” Beau leans forward, reaching for my clammy hand. “It’s okay. It’s just turbulence. We’ll bounce right through it.”
Another jolt smacks the plane.
Colton takes his headphones off, glancing toward the cockpit.
“We’re fine,” he assures. “If the crew is calm, we’re calm. Besides, once you fly through a nor’easter after a loss to Boston, this little tropical breeze ain’t shit.”
“Now,” Amber advises no one on her screen while we face certain doom, “if you’re old, like over thirty, don’t wear matte. It’s a felony.”
No, a felony is what I’ll commit once I barf into the paper bag I grab from the side leather pocket of my recliner. I’ll fill it with my bile and breakfast before I shove it down Amber’s Botoxed neck. I swear the woman has no pores or creases like she’s AI and evil.
Beau sees how I must be as green as the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Hey, babe.” He unfastens his belt and kneels before me, holding my hand. “It’s okay. Hang in there. We’ll be fine.”
He’s taking this fake girlfriend thing to real levels. He’s risking his safety for me.
“Get back in your seat,” I tell him as the plane shakes violently, making my mouth water, but I worry. “You’ll get hurt.”
“I’m fine.” He ignores the laws of physics.
“Dude, she’s right,” Colton barks at him. “Get back in your seat. The last thing we need is for you to have a head injury, too.”
“Fuck you, Hawke.” Beau meets his glare. “My shoulder tear wasn’t my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Colton snarls back. “But a head injury due to turbulence because you weren’t buckled in would be.”
Coach Williams clips. “Hawke’s right. Buckle up, Bronson.”
“I’m fine,” I lie to Beau, squeezing his hand. “I’ll be oh?—”
God swats the plane like a fly in the sky, and here it is. My eggy embarrassment spews into the paper bag in my other hand.
“Babe?” Beau reaches for my cheek but?—
“Bronson!” Colton shouts. “In your fucking seat!”
“Fuck off!” Beau pulls away while I make sure to get some vomit on my cute white ruffled top, too. “You ain’t my dad.”
“No, fucker.” Colton leans our way. “I’m your best friend, remember? You hurt, I hurt, so buckle up. She’ll be okay.”
Colton gently palms my shoulder. He’s seated directly across from me, diagonal to Beau. “Right? You’ll be okay, Raven.” I like his nickname for me. “Just imagine we’re flying on God’s fingertip. We’ll be there safe and real soon, I promise.”
Something about Colton’s warmth and Beau’s concern makes me feel better—that and the eggs that can’t torment my dropping stomach anymore.
“I’m okay,” I mumble while Beau still leans forward, his hand on my shaking knee, though he’s buckled in again.
I close my eyes and make promises I won’t keep to all the gods until, finally, the hell stops.
“Folks,” the captain eases like we just got a full-body massage, “we’re past the chop now. Should have smooth skies until we touch down.”
But now I’m sufficiently mortified and reek of vomit.
“Blair.” Beau can read me, making me open my teary eyes. “Babe, you can go to the bathroom now and freshen up. We can get a fresh shirt for you, too.”
“No.” I tremble. “I can’t stand.”
“Okay.” Beau reaches over his shoulder. In a quick snap, his T-shirt is off. “Wear mine until you feel better.”
I take his offer, discreetly slipping out of my soiled shirt while shimmying his on. Why? Because Beau’s shirt is warm and it smells like him, and the view of his shredded naked torso across from me would cure cholera.
For the last hours of the flight, I survive with Beau as my man candy. A few times, I glance over and catch Colton doing the same.
Once we land, I freshen up in the plane’s microscopic bathroom. To match my white peasant skirt, I tug on the clean white bandeau top I snagged from my carry-on before I rinse my mouth and feel human again.
After one hour on a van followed by a boat ride, we’re here on the tiny private island, a five-minute water taxi ride from the mainland.
The island is tiny. It’s one and a half acres of white sand, a couple of palm trees, and turquoise water everywhere. At its center is the open-concept home, with two tiny detached cottages standing behind it. That’s where the chef and maid live.
Everything is luxury meets rustic island style.
The living room is really a massive covered wooden deck with sofas facing a feature wall just wide enough to fit a flatscreen. Behind it, everything is open to the pool, spa loungers, and the shimmering ocean outside.
The gourmet kitchen is at the back of the large, vaulted-ceiling living area. It’s intimate and just enough for the guests, with eight stools seated around a polished white marble island.
There are four bedrooms in a Jack n’ Jill arrangement. Two adjoining bedrooms are separated by a teak wood and white tiled bathroom with high, open, shuttered windows letting the light and warm breeze in.
Beau claims a guest bedroom for us while Colton tosses his duffel down on the king-size bed in the bedroom across the open breezeway.
I stand in the breezeway, laptop bag slung over my shoulder, almost amused at how they move in silent, pissed-off concert with one another.
Amber claims Colton’s adjoining bedroom as her “glam room,” and for once, I’m thankful for her vanity. I claim Beau’s adjoining room as my “writing room” when only Beau knows I’ll be sleeping here, too.
“Alright!” Coach Williams summons us like summer campers back to the living room.
The sun is starting to set. Its tranquility captivates me, but Coach doesn’t share my Zen.
This is business to him. Billion-dollar football business.
“Get unpacked and rest tonight because you two start at nine a.m. sharp,” he orders.
Then, he aims the flatscreen remote at Beau, then Colton, then the lavish sofa poised in front of the flatscreen with its video conference tech on top. “Every morning, you’ll sit here, log on to your call, and do your sessions with Dr. Gary.”
But Beau and Colton eye the sofa like a proctologist’s exam table, not a plush beachy place to relax with white cushions and turquoise throw pillows.
“And you two.” Coach points to me and Amber like third-string players. “Play somewhere else. By the pool. On the boat. In your rooms. I don’t give two shits. Give them privacy because if I catch wind you’re distractions, you’re out.”
Is this where Beau gets his distraction phobia? Or is it a legit football fear based on statistical evidence? Like a good dicking down that also melts your heart causes defeat?
“Yes, sir.” Either way, I salute Coach with a grin, and Beau winks at my compliance.
But Amber rolls her eyes, and if she had it, she’d smack gum, too. “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”
“Amber, jeez.” Colton rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ chill with the socials. No one lives by what you eat for breakfast.”
“I have a deal with a Total Soul Cleanse tea.” She weaves her neck. “My followers need me for inspo.”
Hell, I’m inspired. I’m buying. Because clearly, Amber has thoroughly cleansed, shitting her soul right down the porcelain bowl ages ago.
She doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t feel it.
But I do. And I respect Coach Williams because he does, too. Yes, he demands performance and perfection from his players, but he understands victory starts in the mind.
And clearly, Beau and Colton are all kinds of mind-fucked over whatever happened between them. If they start training camp with this toxic, hot tension? You can forget the Super Bowl.
It’ll be a super war.
The coach is so annoyed he doesn’t answer Amber. He focuses on what matters: his players.
“I’ll be back in the morning to start your first session,” he warns. “We’re damn lucky Dr. Gary is helping us. The man is the Freud of Football. He writes books on this, and I had to bribe Jesus to make this happen. So if he tells you two to wail like banshees or fall into a fetal position while you console your inner child, you goddamn better. Am I clear?”
“Yes, coach.”
Beau and Colton reply with respect. And I can tell it’s not just because they’re paid millions.
They want this to work. They need this to work.
If not, they lose their dream.