4. Ava
Chapter 4
Ava
“Jet sounds like an entitled ass,” Liv says.
I hold my phone to my ear as I open the fridge and take out a carton of grapefruit juice. I woke up thirsty after going to bed with a headache. I’m sad I missed dinner with Magnus. I’ve loved chatting to him since I arrived. He’s been telling me stories of him and Gramps and what they got up to together at school.
“He sounds like one because he is one,” I grumble.
I place the carton down, then lean against the counter. The silk from my green panties is like a smooth caress against my skin. I love wearing luxurious lingerie beneath a regular outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. It makes me feel powerful and strong.
I can pinpoint the exact moment my addiction began. It was my sixteenth birthday. The day I opened a stunningly beautiful, gift-wrapped box from my mother. Everything about that present was perfect. The champagne silk ribbon tied on the outside. The waft of powdery scent as I lifted the lid. The shimmery cream silk bra and matching panties neatly encased in the tissue paper inside. That set is long gone now, but its memory remains.
The only thing that would have made it better was if my mother had been there to see me open it.
I sigh, looking out at the immaculate green lawn.
“How’s it going?” Liv asks.
I know exactly what she’s referring to and my spine straightens as something moves outside.
“I’ve written fifty words.”
“That’s a start.”
“And deleted forty-five of them.” I crane my neck to see who’s in the garden.
“Five more than you had, though.”
I smile at her confidence in me. “True.”
“You’ll get there. Have faith.”
I murmur a response as something flicks past the window.
“I’ve got to go, I’ll call you later,” I say as I walk toward the glass to investigate.
“Love you, bitch,” Liv sings.
“Love you too,” I reply and hang up.
The thing flicks past the door again.
What the hell is that? A whip?
I stop in front of the large doors. An unimpressed groan rumbles in my throat as I spot Jet on the patio. I haven’t worked him out. I don’t usually have a problem getting along with new people. But there’s something about him that winds me up. Maybe it’s the self-entitled way he spoke to me yesterday. Arrogant grumpiness flows off him in waves. I’ve heard about him. Who hasn’t?
Jet Grant, billionaire US CEO of Atlantic Airways.
Brilliant, intelligent, difficult .
He’s known for being ruthless and negotiating deals that have sent Atlantic Airways soaring into position as one of the world’s most profitable airlines. He’s also known for leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
Smooth in business, turbulent in love.
He lifts his dark blue workout top, pulling the hem of it to his brow and wiping the perspiration away. The move exposes a flash of muscular midriff, and I shift my position to see better.
He picks something off the floor and then straightens.
He starts skipping with alarming speed and precision, the black length of cable circling around over his head and then whipping underneath his sneakers in a fluid motion. His tanned biceps bulge, taut and gleaming with sweat. He’s in his own world, unaware he’s acquired an audience. I’m enthralled by his every move.
“Beats me why he finds that relaxing.”
I jolt away from the glass as Magnus walks in, fixing his tie. His kind eyes meet mine as the morning sunlight highlights the silver strands in his dark hair.
“Would you like one?” he asks, walking over to the coffee machine .
“Oh, no thank you.” I smile politely as I walk back to my unopened juice carton and lift it. “I’m all set.”
When he nods, I ask, “Does he do that every morning?”
Magnus chuckles, such a contrast to his uptight son. “Yep.” He switches the coffee machine on, then turns to me, glancing outside. “Ever since we lost June bug, he’s never missed a day.”
I press my lips together not knowing what to say. Magnus lost his wife, Jet’s mother, five years ago to breast cancer. He’s spoken of her often since I arrived, always with a wistful look on his face, a constant companion to the grief. It’s obvious he loved her so much.
The back door opens and Jet walks in, his chest heaving.
He greets his father with the closest thing to a smile that I’ve seen on his face since we met. Then his eyes flick to mine and they darken. I stare back, refusing to be intimidated.
“How’s your head this morning, Ava?” Magnus asks, oblivious to the mounting tension in the room as he makes his coffee with his back to us.
Jet walks over to a cupboard and takes two glasses out. He fills one with water at the sink and gulps it down. My eyes fix on the bobbing Adam’s apple in his thick neck.
“Much better, thank you. I’m sorry I missed dinner.”
Jet finishes his water and walks closer to me. His bare shoulder is millimeters from brushing against my T-shirt as he places the second glass on the counter. He arches a brow at me and then moves away.
“Don’t worry, plenty more of those. You can fill me in tonight on how your work is going,” Magnus says.
Jet moves across the room like a moody beast before settling against the counter opposite me. He folds his arms, making his biceps bulge.
I tear my eyes off them. “Oh, not much to tell. I’ve not gotten very far yet.” I smile at Magnus.
“Important matters of the heart take time. Don’t rush it. It’ll come.”
“Thank you,” I answer, grateful he’s not going to press further. He knows what I’m working on. It’s why he’s so kindly allowing me to stay here. He agreed with Gramps that this is something I need to do.
He walks toward me, coffee in hand. “Take your time. Do what you need and make yourself at home.”
His kindness overwhelms me, making me reach out and lay my palm over his forearm. He gives me a knowing wink as he pats my hand. Then he inclines his head to Jet, whose eyes are drilling a hole into me.
“Speak to you later, Son. Call me after your meeting with Rich.”
“Will do,” Jet says, the intensity in his glare stepping up a notch as I slide my hand from Magnus’s arm, and we’re left alone in the kitchen.
The two of us eye one another from opposite sides of the room.
I lift the carton, a frisson of energy darting around inside my stomach as Jet’s nostrils flare. I ignore the glass on the counter, instead bringing the carton to my lips. I take a long, deep slug, my eyes fixed on his.
His narrow. That’s when I spot the skipping rope in his hands. I’ve no idea when he picked it up again, but the way he’s coiling it around one of his palms, making the veins pop in his forearms as he glares at me has my pulse notching up a gear and an unwelcome heat flaring in my core.
“You’re a bit of a brat, aren’t you, Miss Roberts?”
I swallow my mouthful of juice before I cough. “Excuse me?”
He stalks closer, looking from the empty glass on the counter to the carton between my fingers.
“You heard me,” he clips.
“And you’re a bit of an old ass.” I scoff without thinking.
“I’m thirty-three.”
“So you said.”
His wide shoulders still carry a sheen from the layer of fresh sweat on them. And his dark hair has turned into glistening inky strands.
“What if you aren’t the only one in this house who likes grapefruit juice ?” He frowns, reading the carton.
“Margaret said this fridge was for my things. Mag… I mean, your father, said it too.”
“My father should know better than to let his hospitality overrule common manners.” He transfers the skipping rope to one hand and lifts the unused glass with the other. “Use. The. Glass. ”
My fingers tingle, ready to take it from him. But I quell the feeling, and instead, lift the carton to my lips, taking another sip as I keep my eyes on his.
My red lipstick leaves a glaring circle around the edge as I lower the carton. Jet’s attention zeroes in on it like it’s the root of all evil.
“No, thank you. I’m good,” I reply, giving him a sweet smile.
A vein in his temple pulses, and he takes a slow, measured breath in as he places the glass back down. He takes the carton from me, his fingers brushing mine and making me jump as an electric shock sparks between our skin. He scowls at the scarlet ring on the spout, and I wait for him to throw it in the trash.
Instead, he brings it to his lips, tilting his head back as he drains the remaining juice from it, then crumples the empty container inside his fist.
“ Your carton is empty now.” He tosses it on the counter. “The next one you open is for everyone, so use a fucking glass.”
“You just cursed.”
He stares at me.
“You just cursed after telling me off for cursing,” I say.
“That was nothing, Ava. You’d know if I was telling you off, believe me.”
My thighs clench involuntarily at the deep baritone of his tone. I rest my gaze on the smudge of red lipstick on his lips .
“You have my…” I circle a finger in the air toward the offending mark. It looks wrong on his arrogant lips.
He swipes his thumb over his lower lip, bringing it in front of his face so he can assess it. I wait for him to wipe it on his top, or rush to wash his hands like he did after he shook mine when we met.
“Exactly why you should use a glass.”
“You and your glass obsession,” I mutter.
He scowls at his thumb, then takes it between his lips and sucks it clean.
My knees buckle, and Jet’s eyes land on my throat before they slide up to my face.
“Remember you’re here as my father’s guest, Miss Roberts. I suggest you watch your mouth.”
I don’t have time to fire back a response before he strides out of the room, leaving the scent of masculine sweat in the air.
My eyes travel to the crumpled carton on the counter and the unused glass beside it. I pick up the glass and put it back in the cabinet. I won’t be needing it. I’ve no intention of using it now that I know it riles Jet up so much. Because something about the way his blue eyes glimmered with a hint of danger in them has me intrigued. It’s a bad idea to push him. Every instinct I have tells me it’s a bad idea.
But I know I’ll do it again.
And enjoy every second.