6. Harbor #2
My dad’s words burn in my chest. If this rebrand fails, if I don’t build something lasting here, he’ll have his proof I was never worthy of the Hayes name.
“Water.” The flight attendant shoves a bottle in my direction, handing the other to Weston, her fingers lingering on the plastic for a beat too long.
“Thanks.” Weston unscrews the lid and takes a long swig. She hovers for a few more seconds, then darts away when the GM calls her over.
I shift in my seat, take a quick sip of water to quell my scratchy throat. I didn’t know I signed up for twenty questions with the grumpy captain this morning.
“That’s not going to happen. We’re going to get to Driftwood Cove and nail this rebrand. At least, I’ll do my part.” I level my gaze with his. “Will you do yours?”
“Are you insinuating I won’t?” His brow furrows, a deep V forming between his eyes.
I shrug. “I don’t know. You haven’t been pleased with the rebrand from the start. How do I know you’re not going to tank the whole thing?”
Weston leans forward, our faces inches apart. “Don’t question my integrity, Ms. Hayes. To be clear, I always do what’s best for the team. No matter what, whether I like it or not. I’m the leader of this team and I don’t take that responsibility lightly.”
There it is again, that edge in his voice that reminds me of my father. Always questioning my decisions.
This time, I’m not backing down. I’ve earned my place at the table.
I swallow hard, sitting up as tall as I can in the buttery leather seat. “Remember how you said I have to earn your trust?”
His jaw ticks, a vein in his neck pulsating. “I do.”
“Well, you have to prove yourself to me.”
His eyes flash and a hot bolt of desire zings straight to my clit.
WTF?
But there’s something about his strong, tense jaw, that spark just below the growly surface.
“Make the team believe in this plan, Weston.”
“I’m a hockey player, not a magician.”
I huff out a sigh. The man’s aggravating as hell.
Suddenly, lights flicker and the plane bounces up and down. Gasping, I grip the armrest, hot panic flooding my chest.
“Please take your seats and keep your safety belts fastened for the remainder of the flight. We’re moving through a storm and there will be turbulence.” The pilot’s voice hums through the speaker, and I plant my feet firmly on the floor, digging in.
“It’s just a little turbulence. We’ll be fine.” Weston’s voice is calm as he attempts to reassure me.
The plane shakes and we drop again, a quick dip down, sharp enough to lift my ass off the seat.
“Oh my gosh!” I cry, the panic intensifying.
“Breathe, Harbor. It’ll be okay.” Weston’s voice is low, soothing me. “Breathe in and out. Good, just like that.”
He rests his fingers on my forearm, the rough pad of his thumb rubbing tiny circles on my arm. Sparks fly across my skin, all my focus on Weston’s touch.
“In and out. Good girl.” The words trickle through me like warm honey, my stomach swooping. “That’s very good.”
We drop again, steeper this time, and now I’m shaking.
“It’s okay, we’re okay.” I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or himself at this point. The sky’s a dark gray as we pitch through the clouds. Sweat beads on my brow as we lurch through the air. Weston keeps his hand on my arm the entire time.
I scrunch my eyes shut and start reciting the Hail Mary, at least what I can remember of it, my lips moving fervently as I pray.
I don’t want to die today.
Please don’t let me die.
I can’t go out like this.
Rain beats against the window, competing with the loud whoosh of blood pounding in my ears. A wave of nausea rolls through me as we bounce up and down, the water churning in my stomach .
Another spiky descent and to my horror, I scream, bracing for impact. Weston wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his strong body.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, stroking my arm. His masculine scent fills my nostrils as I breathe in deeply, trying to get ahold of myself. “I’ve got you.”
I relax into him, hot tears pricking my eyes. His T-shirt’s soft on my face, his heartbeat thumping in my ear.
I cannot cry right now.
Champions don’t break under pressure. Mental toughness separates the winners from the losers.
And here I am, about to break down at thirty thousand feet in front of the one person whose respect I need the most.
“If you could go anywhere in the world, do anything, what would it be?” Weston lightly squeezes my biceps, bringing me into the present.
“Besides heaven, if this plane crashes?”
“Yeah. Besides heaven.”
“Uh…I don’t know.” Bounce, bounce, bounce.
I rack my brain for an answer to his question, ignoring the turbulence.
“France. I always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower in person. Sounds cliché, I guess. But I took French in school.”
“Nice. Good choice.”
“What about you? Where do you want to go?”
“Iceland. I want to see the Northern Lights.”
“Oh, that’s a good one. Me too. It seems so romantic.”
The nose of the plane lifts up, gravity forcing us to lean back in our seats. But still Weston keeps a firm grip on me.
“That’s a good sign, right? That we’re rising up?”
“Yeah, Harbor, that’s a good sign. Better than down. ”
My body relaxes into his, nestled under his strong arm.
We fit just right.
“What do you think about sharks?” I ask.
“I don’t love them. Especially if we crash into the ocean.”
“You think we’re going to crash into the ocean?” My voice tips up, chest squeezing.
“No. I’m teasing you.”
“Oh, good.” I swallow down the panic. “For the mascot—hammerhead sharks. Because we’re the Coastal Crushers. Get it? Crush, hammer.”
His body stiffens. “Not sharks.”
“Why not?”
“The team can’t be a Florida cliché.”
The plane dips precipitously again and my fingers fly to his shirt, clutching at the solid wall of chest. His heart hammers beneath my palm.
“They’re apex predators.” I try to keep my voice steady, despite my frayed nerves and the turbulence. “Powerful, fast, respected.”
“Fine. Hammerheads. But don’t make the shark all cutesy. We’re elite athletes, not cartoon characters.”
“Deal.”
I practically sigh with relief as the plane levels out, the sky brightening and the lights blinking back on.
“That should be all the rough skies we hit today, folks. But keep those safety belts on, just in case.” The pilot’s voice crackles over the speaker.
I exhale a long breath. “Crisis averted.”
“Looks like.”
We sit in silence for a long minute, Weston’s arm still wound around me. My nervous system should be calming down now that we’re not careening into the Atlantic, but that’s not what’s happening.
Instead, I’m acutely aware of my racing heart, the heat of my skin where Weston’s making contact.
“Thanks. For talking me through that.”
He unwinds his arm from my shoulders and a tiny flicker of disappointment ripples through me.
“No problem. Should have asked if you were a nervous flyer before I took this seat, I guess.” He nudges my elbow, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Shut up. That wasn’t just nervous flying. We almost died!”
“So dramatic. We hit a rough patch. I thought PR people were calm under pressure.”
“There’s a difference between business challenges and facing down death, Weston.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating his broad chest, and my pulse accelerates.
I survived an almost-plane crash. But I’m not so sure I’m coming out of this job intact.
Not if I have to keep working so closely with Weston Steele.
Because my heart isn’t part of the contract.