Chapter 2 #2
"It's so smooth," she marvels. "And quiet. I can barely feel that we're moving."
"That's the beauty of a well-maintained aircraft," I find myself saying. “And no dealing with commercial airline delays or crowds."
She turns those green eyes on me. "Do you fly private often?"
Knox laughs. "Will doesn't do commercial. He's allergic to things he can't control."
"I prefer efficiency," I correct, not liking how accurately my brother hit the mark.
"Right. That's why you have the pilots file three different flight plans and check the weather obsessively for weeks before any trip."
"Being prepared isn't obsessive."
"He made a spreadsheet for this trip," Knox tells Carina conspiratorially. "Color-coded. With tabs for each day."
"Organization is—"
The plane lurches. Not dramatically, just a bump of turbulence, but Carina's face goes pale. Her hands clutch the armrests again, and without thinking, I'm unbuckling my seatbelt.
"It's just an air pocket," I say, moving to the seat beside her. "Completely normal."
"I know." But her voice is tight, scared. "I just... I don't fly much."
Another bump. She makes a small sound of distress, and suddenly her hand is gripping mine. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly, but her grip is strong.
"Look at me." I use the voice that commands boardrooms, but gentler. "We're perfectly safe. This aircraft is rated for much worse conditions. The pilots are both ex-military with over 10,000 flight hours each."
She focuses on my face, breathing slowly. "You really do control everything, don't you?"
"I try." The honesty slips out before I can stop it. "It doesn't always work."
The turbulence passes, but she doesn't let go of my hand. I should move back to my seat. Should reestablish some professional boundaries. Should do a lot of things that don't involve noticing how perfectly her hand fits in mine.
"Thank you," she says softly.
I extract my hand carefully, standing. "Of course. If you need anything during the flight, just ask."
Back in my seat, I bury myself in emails, contracts, anything to avoid thinking about the warmth of her skin or the way she'd looked at me with those trusting eyes.
But I'm hyperaware of her presence, of every time she laughs at something Knox says, every question she asks Travis about the business.
Two hours into the flight, she gets up to explore. I watch from the corner of my eye as she examines the galley, runs her hands over the marble countertops, opens cabinets with the reverence of someone who appreciates quality.
"It's better equipped than most restaurant kitchens," she says, wonder in her voice.
"We host clients sometimes," I explain. "It's important to be able to serve quality meals even at 40,000 feet."
"Have you ever cooked up here?"
"God, no," Knox interjects. "Will doesn't cook."
"I can cook," I protest, oddly stung by the accusation.
"Heating up takeout doesn't count."
Carina's looking at me with curiosity. "You really don't cook?"
"I don't have much free time." It sounds weak even to my ears. "Running a company doesn't leave much room for any hobbies."
"Cooking isn't a hobby," she says, and there's passion in her voice now. "It's... it's creating something from nothing. It's taking raw ingredients and transforming them into something that nourishes people, brings them joy. It's art and science and love all mixed together."
The way she talks about food—with reverence, with genuine emotion—makes something tighten in my chest. When was the last time I felt that passionate about anything besides work?
"You should teach him," Knox suggests, grinning. "Will needs more joy in his life."
"I have plenty of joy."
Three skeptical faces turn toward me.
"I do," I insist. "The company brings me joy. Success brings me joy."
"When's the last time you did something just for fun?" Travis asks. "Not for business, not because it was efficient or profitable, just because you wanted to?"
I open my mouth to respond, then close it.
"See?" Knox looks triumphant. "Carina, I officially task you with teaching my brother how to have fun. Starting with cooking lessons."
"I didn't agree to that," I say quickly.
"I didn't offer," Carina adds, but she's smiling slightly.
"Consider it part of your duties," Knox continues. "Chief Chef and Chief Fun Officer."
"That's not a real title," I point out.
"It is now."
The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom, saving me from further ridicule. "Mr. Montclair, we've got a situation. Strong headwinds over the Atlantic. We’re going to have to land somewhere and wait out the weather."
"Fuck," I mutter, then remember Carina and amend, "I apologize for the language."
She waves it off. "I've worked in kitchens. I've heard much worse."
"The delays can't be helped," Travis says reasonably. "We'll adjust."
But I'm already pulling out my phone, checking weather patterns, and calculating alternatives.
"Will." Travis's voice cuts through my spiral. "We’ll get there when we get there. The world won't end."
"The Richter meeting is at nine AM. If we don't get adequate rest—"
"We'll be fine." He's using his CFO voice now, the one that talks investors off ledges. "You built buffer time into the schedule because you always do. This is why."
He's right. I know he's right. But the deviation from the plan, makes my skin itch.
"Hey." Carina's voice is soft. I look up to find her watching me with something like understanding. "Would it help to cook something?"
"What?"
"When I'm stressed, I cook. It helps me focus, gives me something to do with my hands." She gestures to the galley. "This kitchen is incredible. We could make a meal for everyone. Unless... unless that's overstepping?"
I should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should definitely not spend the next hour watching her work in close quarters.
“Not this time,” I say but feel a twinge in my chest. “But feel free to do all the cooking you want.”
As she starts pulling ingredients from the galley, humming softly under her breath, I realize I'm in trouble. This is way too many hours in an enclosed space with a woman who's already complicating my perfectly ordered world.
I pull up my spreadsheet, trying to find comfort in its color-coded perfection. But my eyes keep drifting to her as she prepares the space for us to cook, efficient and graceful and utterly captivating.
It's all about control though, right?
But for the first time in years, I'm not sure I want it.