Chapter 8
“Doesn’t your family have, like, a private jet or something?” Will whispered as they tried in vain to get comfortable in the cramped seats. “Why are we flying peasant class?”
Cole closed his eyes and pushed out a breath through his nose.
In that moment, he’d have gleefully boarded one of his parents’ aircraft and listened to Mother talk for the entire flight.
That sounded like heaven compared to shoehorning himself into the middle seat between two people who made him want to commit violence.
Will, of course, but also the clown who had the aisle seat, a razor-sharp elbow, and zero sense of personal space.
Cole had to keep his knees pressed tightly together to avoid touching Will or falling victim to Aisle Guy’s manspreading.
At least the flight was short. They were already leveling out at cruising altitude, and in less than two hours, they’d be deplaning and on their way to get information out of one of the most insufferable clowns he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing.
That said a lot, given that Cole knew Marcus, his family’s entire social circle, and the asshat sitting beside him.
What had he called their ex? A taint barnacle?
Because that was the pot calling the kettle black.
“Hey.” Will elbowed him, unaware that Cole’s temper was already on a knife’s edge thanks to Aisle Guy’s elbow in his ribs and the intensifying muscle cramp in his thigh. “Why are we flying peasant—”
“What precisely makes you think my family owns a jet?” Cole glared hard at him, hoping he read between the lines: How about not making the people around us wonder why one of us might have access to private aircraft? Does the word ‘discretion’ mean anything to you?
From the startled upward flick of Will’s eyebrows, Cole thought for a too-brief second that he’d made his point.
But then Will smirked and said, no longer whispering, “That’s so disappointing.
Your whole profile was all about how your dad is a rock star, and you’ve done nothing but brag about it since we met.
Now we’re flying”—he gestured around them—“like this?” He scoffed, folded his arms, and looked pointedly out the window.
“Why should I believe any of the other bullshit you’ve fed me? ”
Cole stared at him, lips parted.
Will cut his eyes toward him, and that smirk reappeared for a heartbeat.
Then he was back to pouty and pissed off, and his voice ticked up another irritated notch.
“Because I’m starting to think the trust fund doesn’t exist, either.
What else have you lied about, Quenton? Are you actually Mick Jagger’s lovechild?
Did you really have a threesome with those two Republican senators?
” He huffed sharply. “Are you just playing me for a fool? Hmm? Tell me. Because I deserve to know why my allegedly rich and famous boyfriend is flying me in coach!” He flailed his hand before letting it fall to his thigh with a loud smack. “Not even Economy Plus? What the hell?”
By this point, heads were turning. A few conversations around them had stopped. A few others had started up, hushed and conspiratorial.
On the bright side, Aisle Guy was apparently either homophobic or just didn’t want any part of this escalating lover’s quarrel, because he’d retreated back to his own seat.
His elbow no longer pressed into Cole’s ribs.
His knee had moved enough that Cole could relax his cramping leg muscles.
That alone kept Cole from doing something that would have the air marshal intervening.
Fine. Will wanted to pose as pretend lovers for their wildly unnecessary cover story on a plane where they would have otherwise gone unnoticed? Two could play at that game.
With the most patronizing sigh he could muster, he reached over, pried Will’s hand away from his crossed arms, and clasped it in his. “We’ve been through this, Burt.”
The little flicker of “what the fuck?” across Will’s face almost made him burst out laughing.
Yep. You’re Burt for the duration of this flight. Live with it.
Cole continued in that soothing, patronizing tone, “We have to go through the motions so my family doesn’t think you’re a gold digger.
” He squeezed Will’s hand a little harder than necessary.
“It’s the game we have to play after that tantrum you threw when I didn’t give you the diamond-and-platinum Rolex you wanted on our two-and-a-half-week anniversary. ”
The shock, confusion, and annoyance in Will’s expression were so delicious, Cole wanted to bottle and sell it.
“We’ll get there.” He gave Will’s hand a reassuring pat. “We just have to convince them you really love me and not, you know, my money or my sexy past.”
“But… But…” Will sputtered. Then he recovered and rallied. “Why didn’t you tell them that you promised me the Rolex? I didn’t throw a tantrum! I was just upset that you’d promised me something over and over, and then—I mean, I think I have a right to be hurt by a bait-and-switch!”
“I told you I’d give it to you on our anniversary,” Cole said evenly.
“Not our two-and-a-half-week anniversary. And even if I had lied, was that really an excuse to throw an entire bottle of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux and ruin my mother’s antique Persian rug?
” Tsking, he shook his head. “That rug was nearly a quarter of a million dollars.”
Someone behind them choked on a drink.
Barely managing to stifle his laughter, Cole finished, “It’s going to take a while to regain their faith in you as actual boyfriend material.”
Will gave another sharp, irritated huff. “I don’t even get why she was so upset. She’s the one who lets her stupid goats come in the house and chew and piss on it.” He scowled, shaking his head. “The wine stain was an improvement if you ask me.”
Cole very nearly snorted. He was probably enjoying this more than he should’ve been, which kind of annoyed him because enjoying something with Will was just—eww. No.
He gave Will’s hand another squeeze. “Just ride it out a little longer, okay? We’ll get you back on her good side.” He gave the asshole a toothy grin. “Then you can go up in the private jet. Okay, baby?”
Will quirked his lips. Then he sighed and let his shoulders sag. “Fine. Okay. You know your family better than I do.”
“Mmhmm. So we’re good?”
“Yeah, we’re good.”
And then, before Cole could think, never mind shout “What the fuck are you doing?” and backhand Will onto another airline, the asshole touched his face and kissed him.
Kissed. Him.
Right on the goddamned mouth.
It was quick—just a light peck to sell the show to their audience—but Will’s lips definitely made contact with Cole’s, and Cole’s brain pretty much shorted out.
The audacity of this motherfucker and his incredibly soft lips and—
Will winked at him, settled back into his seat, and took out his phone. By the time Cole’s thoughts were back online, Will was lost in some ridiculous freemium game.
At least he kept the volume muted.
Cole just rolled his eyes, dug his elbow firmly into Will’s ribs, and settled in for the rest of the flight.
And all the way to Montreal, he fantasized about what he could say to Canadian customs that would make Will not his problem anymore.
As soon as Will closed the door to their suite, Cole punched him in the arm.
“Ow!” Will yelped. “What the fuck?”
“Just doing what I couldn’t do on the goddamned plane,” Cole muttered, continuing into the suite.
“Oh whatever.” Will followed, rubbing his arm and wincing. “Admit it—it was fun.”
“It was.” Cole grinned broadly. “And so was punching you.”
“Ugh. You really are the worst. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Please do.”
The response to that was a middle finger. Then Will looked around. “Where even is the bathroom in here? This room is huge!”
“It’s not a room, it’s a suite.”
“That’s like saying you’re not a jackass, you’re an asshole.
Same idea, slightly different aesthetic.
” Then he wandered off, searching the various doors for the bathroom.
Apparently that was door number three, and his voice echoed off metal and tile as he exclaimed, “Who the fuck needs a bathroom this big?”
Cole just chuckled and sat on the sofa. The bathrooms in this hotel were fairly modest compared to the ones he’d grown up with.
Will would have kittens if he saw the tile and chrome monstrosity Mother had in the big house.
Hell, the one she had at one of the summer homes was bigger than this entire hotel suite.
Cole would keep the small, utilitarian bathroom in his apartment, thank you.
While Will showered, Cole pulled up the app where they’d been communicating with Jacques-Louis.
I just checked into the suite. Did you find the licorice I asked for?
Of course I found it.
It better be black licorice. If it’s red, I’m calling the cops.
The response was a photo of exactly what he’d asked for: three thick ropes of black licorice, each a full meter long.
He snickered and shook his head. If nothing else, he had to give Jacques-Louis credit; the man was open-minded and game for basically anything with his hookups.
He was probably a lot of fun for people who just fooled around with him and had never endured a conversation beyond meeting places and safe words. What a waste of kinky adventurousness.
Suite number is 745. Give the concierge the name Brian Tate. They’ll give you a keycard for the elevator.
I can’t wait!
Neither can I. (winking emoji)
Cole put his phone aside and sat back against the sofa. He stared up at the ornate crown molding as he listened to the rush and splash of water in the next room. They’d accomplished the most challenging part of their job, which was to lure Campeau into the hotel.