Chapter 10 Business Tripping
The morning we’re set to leave for California rolls in with a Portland exclusive: gray clouds and a chilly wind.
The heaviness in the sky matches the weight that’s settled in my chest since learning about our transportation.
I’ve flip flopped about bringing it up at least a dozen times, but as our travel date grew closer, it seemed less and less reasonable.
Still, that feeling at the base of my neck I swore I’d never ignore again—the one that prompts me into speaking up for myself—hasn’t subsided.
This, combined with insecurities about my clothing options, leaves me as jumpy and jittery as a sand flea in June.
After packing and repacking my bag, and figuring I can change before we meet with the Barker’s, I settled on a pair of wide leg trousers and a loose knit sweater for the plane.
I’m rifling through my mess of a sock drawer and cursing my inability to organize anything in my personal life when a knock at the front door echoes through the house.
Shit. He’s early.
Because of course he is.
Fearing anything Kara might say to Noah while I’m still getting ready, I grab a mismatched pair of socks off the top and snatch my duffle off the bed. After throwing the strap over my head and across my body, I hop on one foot down the hallway, struggling to pull on the first sock.
As I approach the top of the stairs, Kara, still wrapped in her pink floral bathrobe, shuffles towards the door. She yawns and reaches for the handle.
“Wait,” I whisper. “I’m not—”
I’m either not loud enough, or she ignores me entirely and swings the door open right as I lift my foot towards the second sock.
Momentum from snapping my head up to find Noah standing in the doorway, combined with the instability of trying to shove my foot into the neon frog-faced hosiery works together to pull me forward just enough to send me careening down the flight of stairs.
The thirty seconds it takes to reach the ground floor passes with flashes of the ceiling, Kara’s horrified stare, and the faded blue Nike bag swiveling around my body and hitting me in the back of the head. I land in a crumpled mess at the bottom, face pressed into the duffle bag, ass in the air.
The awkward and mortifying silence is broken when Kara yelps and scrambles to my side, her and Noah’s voice sounding in tandem.
“Are you okay?”
Physically, everything is throbbing, but nothing feels broken. My pride, however, is battered beyond recognition.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, pushing up to my knees and feeling every ounce of the opposite. “Unless, of course, you count my dignity.”
Kara’s giggle starts first, the infectious sound of it turning Noah’s worried mask into a reluctant grin. I, too, chuckle at the absurdity of it all.
I suppose, if there is anything to glean from the universe’s clear intent to humiliate me at every chance it gets, it's that moments like this will keep a respectable, albeit humbling, distance between me and the reality of crossing a line with Noah.
There is no way he is ever going to see me as anything but the woman who wears mismatched frog socks and has a habit of farting or tripping at every available interval.
And no one wants to fall into bed with her.
I slip the duffle back over my head and Noah reaches for it.
“I’ll get this into the car.”
I let him take it and sink onto the entryway bench to put my shoes on. He slips out the front door and Kara slumps against the wall. Her face is twisted in a familiar mischievous grin.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” I say, shoving my foot into my faded sneaker.
“He’s dreamy.”
“I said stop it.”
“You two are so gonna bang.”
I frown, tying the laces on my second shoe—double knots, just to be safe.
“Have you lost your mind? What about the last five minutes gave you that impression?”
“He took your bag to the car.”
Popping up, I grab my purse off its hook and adjust the strap over my shoulder.
“I say this with someone with standards on the floor. If that is your bar for romance, you have some serious self-reflection to do.”
She shrugs, and prompts me towards the door.
“Go. Have fun. And call me. I want every dirty detail.”
“You’re certifiable.”
As I step onto the porch, I feel more like a kid prancing off to her first day of school than a professional woman joining her boss on a business trip.
Noah stands at the open back door of the black town car parked next to Kara’s Honda, and without the cloud of my trip down the stairs ruining it, I take a moment to appreciate his appearance.
He’s in a burgundy sweater and khaki slacks, which are unsurprisingly tailored to fit perfectly. His hair, though less coifed than it is on any day in the office, lays in its usual perfectly rumpled waves. He’s holding two paper cups and extends one of them as I approach.
“Coffee?”
“Bless you.”
I’m getting settled in the back seat when Noah slides in after me and nods to the driver.
“We’re ready, Kevin.”
The car glides forward, my neighborhood passing through tinted windows, and I stretch into the plush leather.
I haven’t had my own car in years; the last was a clunker I named Betsy.
She served me well but when her engine practically fell out on my way home from Nan’s, I fully committed to the urban life of public transportation.
“I’m going to have to stop hanging out with you,” I say, sipping my coffee. “Ride shares and bus seats just don’t hold the same charm as hand stitched leather. This might ruin me.”
Noah laughs. “I can’t say that’s a bad thing.”
I roll my eyes and take another sip of my drink to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. He did offer to pick me up, and he brought coffee. The knot at the base of my neck throbs, begging for me to speak up.
“Are you alright?”
Noah’s head is cocked to the side, his brow crinkled with concern. I chew on the side of my tongue, trying to decide how honest I want to be.
“It’s just . . . most of us don’t have company cards and trust funds to burn through.”
Recognition flashes on his face. “Ah, I see.”
“That was probably the shittiest way for me to say it, and I swear I’m not trying to be awful, it’s just a lot to wrap my head around. Between the car service and the private planes, it’s clear you and I have very different opinions on what’s considered economic.”
He nods, adjusting in his seat.
“I’m sorry,” I say, rushing to soften the blow.
“No,” he says. “I can see how all of this”—he motions to the car—“seems superfluous.”
“Seems?” I let out a nervous laugh. “We’re headed to board a private plane. Something you just knew how to arrange.”
“Ah,” he says again, the understanding blooming between us. “Can I explain?”
I’m not sure how else he’ll be able to explain any of it, but I nod. If it will make him feel better, I’ll let him speak his piece.
“The private flight was not my first choice. I did look into a commercial option, but for the dates of our trip, there were no direct flights. I was planning on accommodating the extra travel, but then learned the jet was headed back to LA anyway and would be making the trip with or without us. Flourish isn’t the only company who uses this charter.
Our trip back is also a pitstop for them on their way to Seattle.
It’s honestly just a lucky happenstance. ”
The knot in my neck drops to my stomach like a bowling ball. Fuck. Here I’ve been leaping to conclusions without even half the context.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, clutching the coffee cup so hard I fear it might crumple.
“Don’t be. I am very aware of what this looks like.”
His words are weighted with a tinge of bitter, like he’s had his fair share of moments being cast as the rich asshat.
“Thanks for this,” I mutter, raising my cup in his direction. “And the ride.”
“You’re welcome. I wasn’t sure how you take it, but this place makes the best cappuccinos.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else, though the sentiment stands. You’re ruining me for anything less.”
“Well, I meant what I said. Elevating your standards is not my idea of a bad time.”
“I have no business elevating anything.” I point a thumb over my shoulder. “You saw me fall back there. Me and high places don’t mix.”
He chuckles again, shaking his head and pulling his phone out. “We’ll see.”
There’s an unassuming simplicity in his response, and it disarms any further sarcasm I might have mustered.
It leaves me off balance and grateful he’s not still looking at me.
I shift my attention to the blur of mid-morning traffic outside my window, unable to ward off thoughts about what other standards Noah Graves intends on raising.
If towncars have ruined me for future ride shares, driving onto the tarmac and skipping standard security has ruined me for flying commercial ever again. I’m halfway into teasing Noah about this exact thing as we walk towards the sleek white jet.
“There are no crowds, no screaming toddlers, and no Karens fuming about a delayed flight. There’s not even a fight for a boarding order.”
“If it would make you feel better, I can shove you out of the way and board first.”
“Not on your life, Graves. I’m short, but I pack a punch.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says.
After learning the luxury of this experience wasn’t the moral gray spot I assumed it to be, I figure it’s not so bad to enjoy it a little.
A flight attendant stands at the top of the stairs with a tray holding two flutes of champagne. He smiles and offers it as I reach him.
“Good morning, Miss Wilde,” the attendant chimes. “My name is Phillip. If there is anything you need to make your experience more comfortable, please let me know.”
My curiosity morphs into awe as I step onto the aircraft.