CHAPTER THREE
SEBASTIAN
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F ucking airports. Fucking queues. Fucking...people.
I climb aboard the aircraft and nod at the smiling, hopeful flight attendant.
No thanks .
Yes, she’s gorgeous, but she’s also very aware of that fact, which means she’ll be a lazy fuck. Trust me, I know women. The more beautiful they are, the less they think they need to do to earn the orgasm.
It’s boring and I have zero interest.
Not that I go for average women, but I can’t argue when they get on their knees, they have some of the best mouths out there.
“Good morning, Mr. Remington,” Miss Flight Attendant purrs.
My cock twitches, tempted.
Nope.
I need sleep and have work to do when I wake up. It’s a nine-hour flight to New York and I intend to go over the financial report sent to me this morning and approve it. That’s if I can concentrate while sharing this aircraft with hundreds of other people.
Christ.
I hope this new PA works out. Kristen left a month ago and while HR was riding my ass to replace her, I was avoiding it. She worked for me for five years and was, in my opinion, irreplaceable.
Her fucking husband, Scott, knocked her up, and they decided she would be a stay-at-home mom once on maternity leave.
Which I fully support...unless it’s my PA.
I swear Kristen could read my mind. Before I asked for things, she’d done it. Whenever I needed her, she was available.
Much to Scott’s disgust.
Kristen worked many late nights and occasionally accompanied me to events. It saved me from taking a date and having to deal with all the emotional expectations.
It was much easier to put Kristen in a cab and invite someone home if I was attracted to them during the evening.
Occasionally I date.
I use that term loosely. I might take them out for dinner and sleep with them regularly for a few weeks. Five tops.
After that, women seem to think it’s a relationship leading toward marriage. It’s like the kiss of death is awaiting me when they ask questions like, so how do you feel about marriage? Or do you want to be a father?
But nothing, and I mean nothing, gives me hives more than tell me how you made your fortune.
Let me translate: How much money do you have, and how long do I need to stay married to you before I either, a) divorce you or b) poison you?
Not on my watch, sweetheart.
I reach my seat, tug out my laptop, toss it down, and remove my jacket. Then try to curtail my grimace as I glance at everyone seated around me. I don’t care that there’re a few more inches than cattle class. We’re still packed in like sardines.
I’m used to having the entire fucking aircraft.
“Champagne, sir?”
Christ, I haven’t even sat down.
“Whisky,” I reply.
A couple across the aisle and two rows up giggle and hold hands. Jesus. They probably saved for ten years for this trip.
How cute... vomit.
Yes, I’m the most unromantic person on the planet. Blame Sandy the murderess.
Or rather, the Obsidian Viper.
I roll my eyes and lower into the seat, placing the laptop on the sliver of a desk to my left. There’s a mirror image set up right next to me and I hope like god the seat remains empty.
Jeremy should have booked it.
Kristen would have.
I curse, then swipe open my phone and send an email to my new PA, who starts on Monday, to arrange a baby shower gift. Kristen won’t expect me to attend.
I slip off my shoes and tuck them neatly away, then plug in my headphones, starting a business podcast I’ve been saving. Plus, it screams no one talk to me.
Just as I’m relaxing, I do a double take as a blur of color and chaos appears to my left.
No.
No...Jesus. No.
A huge grin, surrounded by wild red hair, greets me. The young woman pulls off a pale green hooded coat that should’ve been trashed years ago and tosses it onto her seat along with a horrible striped scarf, a worn backpack, and pair of Bose headphones.
“Hi!”
My god.
I feel like I’ve been transported onto a London fucking bus. My face must show my horror as her smile briskly fades.
I glance away.
Nine hours. I am not starting a conversation. I’m a New Yorker. Jesus Christ. This is a living hell.
I’m firing the maintenance company that takes care of my jet.
Swiping my phone, I send myself another email.
Plonk.
My head spins as I swear the entire plane moves when the young woman sits down.
Her smile is back.
“Hey, I’m Emily.” She leans closer than is appropriate, her grin so big it’s almost got its own postcode. “Emily Harper.”
“Hello.” I glance away.
As much as I don’t want to, I can’t help noticing just how stunning her blue eyes are. Coupled with all that shocking red hair, she’s fucking beautiful.
Her skin—I glance back—has a natural tan, which is unusual for someone with auburn hair and honestly, I’m a little intrigued.
But Emily Harper is not someone I would usually meet or have anything in common with. Clearly she’s been upgraded, and this could be my worst nightmare.
I have a much stronger survival instinct than that. Nine hours of chatter? No fucking thanks. I close my eyes and focus back on my podcast.
I find myself unable to focus.
I open one eye. At a guess, I’d say Emily is no more than twenty-four. While she was removing her likely Marks & Spencer coat earlier, I took in sexy curves and more-than-a-handful pair of breasts.
I’m oddly attracted, and it surprises me.
“I was upgraded. Can you believe it?” Emily asks me.
Of course you were.
I’m still wondering if she has dark or pink nipples when I turn and give her the smallest smile and press the ear pod into my ear unnecessarily.
“Oh, sorry!” She lifts her hand, and chaos ensues.
The glass of champagne the flight attendant is handing her goes flying, and Emily leaps up out of her seat.
Fucking hell.
“Shit! Oh, fuck. Sorry. Shit.” Emily cries, brushing off the wine and waving her arms, making things worse.
Jesus Christ.
“Here, let me get that.” She tries to grab the tray and it wobbles.
Oh god.
“Stop.” The flight attendant catches the bottle and takes a step back. “I’ll bring some towels. Please take your seat.”
Someone hands Emily some napkins, and she starts a conversation with them while I close my eyes and pray she’s seated elsewhere.
“Thank goodness the seat didn’t get wet.”
This is why I don’t bother praying.
T HIRTY MINUTES AFTER takeoff and I’m ready to kill Emily. She’s twisted in her seat talking to someone across the aisle who lives twenty minutes from her parents’ house. They know her father’s cousin's brother, who works at the hardware store.
Please shoot me.
Anyway, Lyall and his wife recently got married—I don’t remember who Lyall is and frankly don’t care—and they’re expecting their first child.
I wish I didn’t know any of this.
“That’s so wonderful. I’ll have to tell Mom,” Emily says.
“Are you married?” the passenger asks.
“Me? No. Single and carefree. Traveling the world,” she chimes, then I hear her voice come closer. “What about you?”
I blink and turn my head.
“What?”
Stupidly, I remove my earbuds. Listening to the chitchat over the steady timber of the podcast discussing market changes was irritating, anyway.
Most people finish a conversation on a flight, then settle in quietly. Not Emily. I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes her way around first class and introduces herself to everyone.
“We were just—”
“I heard,” I reply roughly.
I don’t need her to go over Lyall’s life. I know more about the man than anyone should know about a stranger.
“I’m guessing you’re engaged.” Emily chuckles, her blue eyes sparkling.
Immediately I’m irritated.
As a man in my mid-thirties, I’m either assumed to be married or questioned as to why I’m not.
“You would be wrong.” I toss back the last of my whisky and hope the flight attendant gets back here fast.
Then I notice the cart coming toward us and the cabin is filled with delicious aromas.
Good.
Food normally makes people sleepy and...quiet.
When I turn back, Emily’s smile has faded from her eyes, and I find myself regretting my comment. Our gazes lock and there’s an insecurity within them that bothers me.
I don’t like it.
I want that fucking smile back on her face.
“Never married. Never will be.” I study her pretty features, her full lips and pink cheeks.
If she brushed her wild hair and put on a designer dress and some fuck me heels, I can imagine Emily Harper would look pretty damn fuckable.
Our meals are placed in front of us, and I resign myself to listening to all the oohs and aahs from Emily for the next several hours. She’s even impressed by the nice napkin.
Good lord.
“Do you fly first class a lot?” she asks.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Then she shovels a forkful of salmon into her mouth and glances around, looking so damn excited to be alive that I can’t help but wonder how it feels to be so happy.
Liar.
You want to know what it feels like to have those lips wrapped around your cock.
Well, if I’m going to be stuck in this thirty-thousand feet hell, I may as well enjoy it.