24. Matt
Matt
“ Y ou’re not telling me where we’re going because …?”
“Sienna, sweetheart ,” I drawled, pushing my sunglasses up my nose as I guided her down the tarmac with a hand at the small of her back. “I’ve told you, what, four times now? It’s a surprise.”
She rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath about control issues and “money-bags behavior ,” but she didn’t stop walking.
Her oversized grey t-shirt hung loosely around her leggings-wrapped upper thighs, her multi-colored knit sweater clutched in her grasp.
I’d told her to bring something at least a little warm, but otherwise to be herself.
She didn’t need makeup if she didn’t want it, didn’t need an overnight bag.
There and back in one day was the mission.
And even with her hair up in a haphazardly done bun, even with nothing but mascara, and especially with the way her clothes were starting to catch on the not-so-hideable bump, she looked so fucking good it made my jaw ache from clenching it.
“Most people apologize with flowers. Or maybe food,” she deadpanned, glancing up at me as we reached the bottom of the stairs for the jet. “But a jet? Come on, Matt, that’s not casual.”
I tried to bite back my grin. “I never said food wasn’t the plan.”
She groaned and forced herself up onto the stairs, clinging to the railing for dear life. “I swear to God, if you’re taking me somewhere fancy without me dressed decently, I might genuinely scream.”
I quirked a brow at her, gesturing to my casual jeans and white button-up. “We’d both be woefully underdressed for that.”
She shot a glare over her shoulder at me as she reached the top. “I wouldn’t put it past you to have a just-in-case suit stored somewhere in this jet.”
I had to hold back the laughter creeping up my chest — she was absurdly good at reading me sometimes. There was definitely a spare tailored Tom Ford suit hanging in the closet on board.
The moment she stepped through the door and turned to the right, she stopped dead in her tracks. I came up behind her, my hand naturally gravitating to the space between her shoulder blades.
“Going to complain again?” I asked.
She loosed a breath like it pained her. “If I asked you how much this cost, would you tell me honestly?”
I leaned against the wall of the plane, watching her carefully.
There wasn’t really a part of me that was ashamed to admit how much I’d spent on it — not when I knew planes like the back of my hand, not when this was half for work and half for personal travel.
But I had a sinking suspicion she might actually lose her mind if I answered that.
“Before or after the renovations?” I asked, glancing toward the cabin with its sleek, dark wood interior and black leather seating.
She winced. “After. Just rip off the band-aid.”
“About thirty-one,” I answered honestly.
Her head whipped around toward me. “Please tell me you mean thirty-one thousand .”
“If this cost me thirty-one thousand,” I said carefully, trying to stifle my chuckle but failing miserably, “I would be truly terrified that it wouldn’t even make it off the ground.”
“Christ.”
She slowly sank into the seat on the right-hand side of the plane, closest to the front, and sighed with almost performative exasperation as she glared up at me. “This is so much worse than you just being a cocky asshole in first class.”
I smirked and sank down to my knees in front of her, fishing the seatbelt out from where it had been stuffed between the cushion and the armrest. “Do I need to remind you how you agreed to sleep with that cocky asshole in first class?”
Her nostrils flared as her gaze met mine, stubborn, defiant, and so fucking cute when her fingers wrapped around my wrist. “I was drunk,” she said simply.
I snorted. “Sweetheart, you’d had two drinks at most.” Her hand slipped away with a huff as I clicked her seatbelt into place, my fingers brushing against the small swell of her stomach before I rose back up. “You don’t get to use that as an excuse.”
We were up and off the ground within twenty minutes.
We didn’t talk much during the flight — she curled up in her seat, footrest out and bare heels dug in, a dog-eared paperback resting on her lap.
I watched her read more than I should have, couldn’t help it.
There was something about her when she wasn’t doing anything, when she just was , that made the cabin feel warmer, more lived in, more alive .
Two hours and thirty-eight minutes later, we landed.
The air was far cooler in western Massachusetts than it had been in Atlanta, thinner and tinged with the crisp edge fall brought sooner up here than it did back home.
I’d taken Zach a couple of times last year, just the two of us, him clambering over rocks and demanding to know if bears actually lived in the woods.
He’d fallen asleep on the drive back to the airport, sticky fingers curled around the empty cider cup I’d bribed him with.
The trees had been a full blaze that time — but now, so early in the season, they were only just beginning to change.
Greens mixed with yellows and reds and oranges, and part of me almost wished I’d waited until everything had turned fully, but there was a softness in this, too.
One I didn’t want to put a name on, one that seemed like a goddamn mirror staring back at me as I drove us up the winding road.
Sienna sat in the passenger seat, her gaze locked out the window, eyes wide and taking in the view as we climbed higher and higher.
Golds and burnt oranges and deep, dark green painted every hillside, bleeding into one another, and I saw the exact moment it hit her that this wasn’t a spa, or a hotel, or some ego-driven date.
She turned to me as I stopped the car in the secluded spot, brows slightly furrowed like she was trying to decide if I was about to murder her somewhere remote or sweep her off her feet.
She didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t offer her any explanations.
I helped her out of the car beneath the shade of the trees, not a building in sight for miles , and walked her past the trail marker for a hike I didn’t intend to take us on.
On the other side of the tree line, a grassy expanse was level before sloping downward to another crop of trees, a little meadow of sanctuary overlooking the Appalachian mountains turning from burnt fall colors to dark blue in the distance, the sun starting to dip low in the sky.
And just at the edge where the grass began to angle downward, a little picnic set up on thick blankets and throw pillows waited.
A basket sat open, half its contents already laid out — soft breads, hot apple cider in a flask to be served, roasted vegetables, a spiced chicken salad that didn’t use soft cheese, and enough fruit to make Zach lose his mind if he were here.
Everything pregnancy-safe. Everything perfect.
She squinted at the display like it might explode.
“You flew me three hours from home,” she said slowly, “for a picnic .”
I started walking toward it backward, watching her. “I thought you’d kick me if I’d taken you somewhere overly high-brow.”
She blinked, taking slow steps forward, following me.
“This might actually be worse. You’re a lunatic.
” Her feet came to a stop at the edge of the blanket, her arms crossing, her eyes surveying the spread as if it had personally offended her.
“This is a rich man’s fever dream. Are there three different types of bread there? ”
I bit back my grin and held out a hand in offering. “Would you rather I’d just packed Lunchables?”
She rolled her eyes and took my hand, using it as leverage to lower herself onto the blanket. “Don’t knock Lunchables. The nachos one is top-tier.”
“I’ve had the nachos one,” I said, sitting down beside her with the quietest humph . “Zach went through a phase of eating them every day for about four months. They’re mediocre at best.”
Her head whipped toward me. “ You , money-bags McGee, let Zach eat Lunchables ?”
I snorted. “Okay, firstly, you’ve seen him eat.
Do you think his dinosaur nuggets are gourmet ?
Do you think I bring in a chef to prep them with the finest ingredients money can buy and then toss them in the freezer?
Because I’ve tried it,” I laughed. “He hates it. He’d happily survive on strictly Tyson nuggets and Kraft mac and cheese if I let him.
And secondly, I’m not a monster . I know they’re not nutritious, but if he likes it, he likes it. ”
She shook her head as if that was somehow the most shocking sentence I’d ever said, leaning back on her hands as she surveyed the food. “You’re a good dad, Matt.” Her eyes met mine, just briefly, before looking back out at the view.
“Wow,” I mused, picking up one of the seasoned crackers and carefully balancing a wedge of cheese on top of it before holding it out to her. “I must have done something seriously right here if you’re openly complimenting me.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she smirked. Her fingers hesitantly took the cracker from me, studying it, before levelling me with a glare. “What kind of cheese is this?”
“Brie,” I said carefully. “Triple checked it’s pasteurized. I gave the chef the list of food you can’t have.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
I shot her a grin and cut off a slice of a different cheese for myself. “I did. I was a little paranoid,” I admitted, popping the cracker between my teeth. “Everything’s labeled. The cheese on your side is safe.”
She nearly choked on her cracker, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as she coughed. “My side ? You zoned the charcuterie?”
“Heaven forbid I keep you and the babies in mind,” I teased, lifting one of the glass containers on her side to reveal a “Sienna-Safe” label beneath it, a descriptor of the food under that. “In fairness, the chef did it. But it was at my request.”