12. Ava
Chapter 12
Ava
I don’t see Jet the following day since he skips dinner with Magnus and I. I work on my story, managing to get a lot written. But it comes at a cost bringing it all back up. I spend most of the night crying, and wake with puffy eyes.
I walk into the kitchen for breakfast and the familiar whipping sound coming from outside slaps me in the face. I open the fridge, grabbing a carton as fast as I can.
I have my back to the garden doors when the sound of one opening makes me slam the fridge shut with force.
Tension creeps up my spine, making me take in a slow, purposeful breath as I keep my back to the looming presence behind me.
I haven’t looked into Jet’s eyes since the moment he pulled his fingers from inside me and told me to cover myself up. Shame makes my lungs burn. I wanted to mess with him, make him scowl at me like he usually does.
I didn’t expect to walk away feeling like shit after.
“You need to be ready to leave in thirty minutes.”
I stiffen as the words hit my back.
“Did you hear me?”
I turn slowly, steeling myself to meet his gaze. He looks back at me, the blue of his eyes cool and unwavering.
There’s nothing in them. No recognition. Nothing.
“Thirty minutes?” I hate that my voice comes out hoarse from my restless night. I clear my throat, but even that sounds like an animal crooning in pain.
He takes a step closer, and his eyes pinch at the corners.
“Why?” I ask, turning my back on him.
“I need to go into head office. There are some people I need to speak to about a new supplier contract I’m setting up.”
“Doesn’t sound like a meeting with Callaghan.” I busy myself with fetching a packet of bagels from the cupboard.
“It isn’t. But it’s connected.”
His voice moves closer, and my back grows warm with his nearing heat.
“Fine. I can be ready.”
“Turn around.” His deep voice cuts through me, and I halt my movements, dragging in a breath.
“I’m busy.” I force my hands to work and open the bag, taking out a bagel that I have no appetite for .
“Ava?”
The way he barks my name has tingles running through me.
Tingles of regret.
Large hands bracket my upper arms, and he turns me. His eyes sweep over my face, settling on my eyes.
“You’ve been crying.”
I drop my gaze to the side before I see anything that might resemble pity, or fake concern in his eyes.
“I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
He lets go of my arms but stays close to me. He’s shirtless. Beads of sweat have gathered over his perfectly defined torso, collecting in the small dusting of dark hair that covers his pecs. They look so soft. Like the perfect place to rest your head and be held. To be safe. To be protected.
You’d never feel alone lying on a chest like Jet’s.
“Cover yourself up, for fuck’s sake.”
I force my feet to move and push past him, abandoning my bagel and juice.
“I’ll be ready in twenty-five,” I snap as I stride out of the room.
The head office of Atlantic Airways is truly something. Jet left me in their large café area while he went off to speak to people. But once my latte is finished and he still isn’t back, I begin to wander.
There are training drills for the flight attendant’s going on behind a giant glass wall. They’re all dressed in boiler suits and sliding down a large evacuation slide that’s rigged up to some industrial looking stairs. I watch them for a while, fascinated, before following a wide corridor adorned with photographs from the airline’s history on the walls.
I stop at one of a younger Magnus with a much older man with familiar striking blue eyes. The plaque beneath reads, Magnus Grant and his grandfather, Atlantic Airways’ founder, Cedric Grant.
I carry on walking and the corridor opens up into a double-height foyer with small trees in giant pots scattered about. In the center is a vintage-looking plane with two large flat wings on either side of the fuselage. It must be a life-sized replica or something. I’ve never seen anything like it .
I glance around as I walk over to it, but the space is deserted.
The metal is cool as I place my hand on it. I stroke my palm along the side as I look at it in awe. I’ve seen a few types of small aircraft. But never one with two wings on top of the other before.
“It’s a wing-walker.”
I jump at Jet’s deep voice and pull my hand away.
“It’s fine. You can touch it.” He walks over to join me, standing beside me as he looks over the plane with a tight-lipped expression.
“Is it a replica?”
He shoves his hands into his pant pockets. “No.”
“You have an actual plane in the office?” I admire it again, running my hand over its faded blue paintwork.
“We are an airline,” he clips.
I meet his eyes and there’s a glint of amusement in his, but it’s gone in a flash.
“Besides, it probably wouldn’t fly now. It’s the last undamaged one of its kind. Most were destroyed when newer models were designed.”
“It’s amazing.” I smile. “Have you always had it in here?” It’s a small plane, but it’s still a huge thing to have on display like this.
“For the last thirty-three years. My father bought it just before I was born.”
“Oh.”
Jet’s phone rings in his pocket, and he pulls it out, frowning at the screen.
“I need to take this. Then we’ll leave. ”
Before I can ask where we’re going next, he brings the phone to his ear.
“Francesca?” Her name rolls off his tongue like warm honey.
Something twists my gut as he wanders off, chuckling softly. I stare at his retreating back until he disappears through a door.
I walk around the space to pass the time until he comes back. I stop at another photograph on the wall in black and white. It’s of the plane that’s on display. It’s flying high up in the sky and there’s a figure standing in the center of the top set of wings.
‘June’s Blue Bird.’
I look at the plane, then to the photograph again. I step closer, squinting to make out the image. It’s not clear enough to see much detail of the figure standing on the wings with their arms in the air. But from the curve of their hips in the boiler-style suit they’re wearing, and the locks of hair flying out from beneath their goggles, I’d say they’re female.
“June,” I murmur. Magnus always calls his late wife June Bug when he talks about her. I’d bet money that this is her in the photograph.
I grow restless as I amble around the space some more. How long does it take Jet to talk to Francesca? Why is James Callaghan’s daughter calling him anyway? Maybe she’s acting as a go-between for her father and Jet. Perhaps they’re about to strike a deal on these new engines Jet needs. Then I’ll no longer need to follow him around like a pathetic puppy. The thought perks me up. He doesn’t even need me. So far, I haven’t taken a single note down in any meetings. Instead, I’ve shopped in New York, been out for two fancy meals, and been spanked.
The only reason I’m still here is because I refuse to back down. Jet will make out he’s won something over me if I try and get out of my promise to be at his side until this deal is sorted.
What was I thinking? Stupid.
I fiddle with the strap of my purse, irritation spreading through me. If Francesca’s call is about the deal, then he should have placed her on speakerphone so I could hear. Then I could offer assistance, which is the whole reason I’m here.
Maybe it wasn’t about the deal? He seemed rather familiar when we saw Francesca dining with Callaghan in New York. He told me she was a model, so he knows that much about her, if not more.
I pull my phone out of my purse and type Francesca Callaghan into Google. The screen immediately fills with perfect image after perfect image. I click on one of her on a runway wearing lingerie and a pair of giant feathered wings. Wow. Her legs would reach up to my chin. I click out and scroll down the page.
A picture of her with her hand on Jet’s cheek as he gazes at her at some red-carpet event steals the air from my lungs. It’s a punch to the gut, even though the moment I heard the way he spoke her name when he took her call made me suspicious .
That bastard. The photo is dated a few years ago, but he could have told me. We’re supposed to be working together on this deal. Surely the fact that he dated the daughter of the man he wants to negotiate a deal with is a fact he should have divulged to me.
I shove my phone back into my purse and stomp through the door that Jet disappeared through, muttering the word asshole under my breath as I stalk down the corridor.
I round a corner and am met with a staircase. Jet’s sitting a couple of steps up, his head in his hands.
“Oh.” My angered advance falters at the defeated slump of his shoulders. He lifts his head and there’s something in his gaze that makes my chest tight. Then he blinks, and it’s gone.
“Everything okay?” I ask tentatively.
“Of course.” A deep V forms between his brows. He stands and descends the stairs, stopping directly in front of me. His eyes penetrate mine with an intensity that makes me swallow. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Was it about the deal?”
“No.”
I search his eyes for a thread of dishonesty, but there’s nothing but a hint of annoyance in his dark gaze.
“Fine.” I cross my arms. “Then I definitely won’t worry about it. ”
He nods once, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Let’s go. I want to catch Rich while he’s at the estate. He won’t be there this afternoon.”
“Rich?” I fall into a hurried step beside him as I try to keep up with his determined strides.
We walk back down the corridor, and he produces an ID card from his pocket, tapping it to a sensor beside a door.
“Logan Rich.” He holds the door open for me to exit. I step outside. We’ve come through an unmarked exit door and are in the car park where Jet left his car earlier.
“He’s at the Silver Distillery. We’re going to be serving their gin on all our flights and in all airport lounges from now on.”
“We’re going to the Silver Estate?” I puff as he marches toward his car, and it unlocks automatically.
He opens the door for me and looks at me over the top of it as I climb in. “It won’t take long.”
He shuts the door and is sinking into the driver’s seat moments later. I’m stifling a yawn as he starts the engine.
“Why don’t you get some sleep on the way? You clearly need it,” he mutters, indicating he finds it highly inappropriate that anyone dare yawn during the workday.
“I’m fine,” I cut back harshly. I might have stayed up all night writing and crying, but there’s no way I’m sleeping in his fancy-pants car. Even if the seats are heated and feel like toasty hugs .
We drive without talking, but he at least has the radio on this time. It’s some instrumental piano music. Gentle, soothing, melodic notes drift around the comfortable leather interior and I turn my face toward the window, hiding another yawn in my shoulder.
Damn it, why didn’t I get three espressos instead of a latte?
The music continues, washing over me like a gentle wave as the lanes of motorway traffic give way to green hedgerows and stretches of rolling fields.
My breathing begins to match Jet’s calm, rhythmic inhales from beside me.
“I’m not tired,” I say, my eyes fixed outside the window.
“If you say so,” he replies.
“Not tired at all.” I yawn.