Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
LEXI
Working with the driver’s wisdom of “act like you belong,” when I get to the top of the plane steps I thrust back my shoulders, flash the flight attendant standing by the door an I’m-totally-supposed-to-be-here smile, “Hi, I’m Lexi,” and stride on by.
“Um, can I help you?” she asks, following me down the—I was about to say aisle, but turns out private jets don’t have much of an aisle. There’s a long cream leather sofa down one side, facing a glossy wooden cabinet that houses a large TV.
Beyond them are four big, also cream, chairs that look like a cross between something from a supervillain’s executive office and a luxurious private movie theater.
Cole and another big guy in a dark suit, who I assume is Dane, rise from the two chairs on the left, buttoning their jackets as if it’s part of a perfectly choreographed dance routine.
Oliver’s messy hair sticks up above the back of one on the right.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I tell the woman and continue past the sofa toward Oliver, lifting my chin at Dane and Cole with the confidence of someone who flies private twice a week.
“Hey.” I plop down into the chair opposite Oliver, which accepts me with an expensive-sounding poof. “Yikes, thought I was going to be late.”
Oliver looks up from his phone, his eyes instantly meeting mine the way they did when he opened the door of his apartment. And again it feels like someone’s pouring warm, glittering honey from my chest to my belly.
“Um.” His eyes flash up to the flight attendant who’s now standing next to me.
“Sir, should I?” She tips her head at Dane and Cole, which I assume is the international aviation sign for “get these guys to throw her off.”
“It’s okay, Melanie.” Sweet of him to know her name. “I’ll handle it.”
“Let me know if you need anything.” She throws me a look and walks back toward the front of the aircraft.
Oliver looks at Dane and Cole and gives them a tiny nod.
They unbutton their jackets and sit back down.
“Everything okay?” I lift my duffel bag from the top of my suitcase as if everything is perfectly normal and stand up to put it in the overhead storage bin, which is edged with the same shiny wood as the TV cabinet and has soft lights set seamlessly into it.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Stowing my luggage. Or do you not need to do that on one of these little planes?”
“Yes, you do. But I mean, why are you here? You’re not supposed to be here.”
I plant my hands on my hips and look at him like he’s talking in riddles. “Of course I’m supposed to be here. You gave me instructions and everything.”
I collapse the handle of my wheelie case and lift it up next to the bag.
“But I texted you just a little while ago.”
“Text?” I unnecessarily rearrange my luggage in the capacious overhead bin to avoid making eye contact with him while I lie.
“Yes.” He’s standing next to me now. Perhaps to take my bags back out. “About the change of plan.”
“Change of plan?” I’m all out of pointless case-shuffling and have no alternative but to turn to face him.
His gaze immediately shoots up from my waist where my top has come untucked while I was stretching up.
He screws up his eyes like he’s in pain and rakes his fingers through his mop of hair. “I told you not to come.”
It’s impossible to deny that he has hands with a quiet sort of power. And those ribbons of veins across the back that theoretically shouldn’t be attractive, very much are.
“Not to come?” It’s easier than I expected to replicate the exact shock I felt when I read his text. That’s method acting, right? Reliving a known experience?
I pull my phone from my small crossbody purse and tap and scroll like I’m struggling to find it. “Oh, I see it now. I must have missed it in my race to pack and get here.”
Reading it again sends the same chill of panic through me as the first time. I have to stay on this plane and make this work.
I look back up at him. “You really don’t want me to come?”
He shifts his focus off to the side with an uncomfortable sigh.
“Guess I got all caught up in it when we were chatting at my place. But in the cold light of day, I realized how the lies about us being an item could easily snowball and get out of hand, hard to keep up with, and, well, messy. Best I go alone, do my thing, and you can interview me over the phone while I’m gone.
Then we can get stuck into it properly when I’m back. ”
“But like I explained, the phone just isn’t the—”
“Same.” He drops back into his seat. “I know. But I also know what it’s like over there. I know what my parents are like. I know what the press is like. It’s inevitable you’ll end up upset. And I can’t inflict that on you. I should have been firmer about it.”
I sit down opposite him. “Oliver, this is my job.”
Right now it feels like it would be the most natural thing in the world to reach across and take his hands while I look into his eyes and explain everything.
I literally sit on those instincts by shoving my fingers under my thighs.
“I didn’t think it was a great idea at first either.
But in order to do this job to the best of my ability—and it’s in both our interests that I do—I need to come with you.
You do want this to be the best book it can be, don’t you? ”
“Of course. But not at the expense of an innocent victim’s sanity and welfare.”
My laughter is totally genuine. “You think I might be an innocent victim?”
“No. In the couple of hours I’ve spent with you, I’m quite certain you’re very capable of looking after yourself in most situations.”
“Great. Then let’s stop talking about this and get our asses to Scotland.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at me from under a worried brow.
“This would be like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.
There are no situations like my family. There are no situations like the way the media treats me—and therefore the way they’ll treat you, if they think you’re my girlfriend. ”
“I am the media, remember? So they can all go to hell.”
He gets to his feet and opens the overhead bin. “For nothing other than your own sake, I’m throwing you off the plane.”
I jump up beside him and thrust my hands into the locker to hold my bags in place before he can pull them out. My left hand lands on top of his and we freeze. His skin is warm and kind of soft, with a light dusting of hair. And it somehow feels as powerful as it looks.
I shift my hand off his and onto the suitcase, pushing back against his effort to pull it out.
I’m never going to win this. He’s almost a foot taller than me and obviously several times stronger.
But I’m desperate here. I can’t afford to miss this deadline.
Which means I can’t afford to lose these two weeks.
“Please.” At this point, perhaps begging is the only thing I have left. “Please don’t.”
He drops his arms and hooks his thumbs into his jeans pockets. “Why are you so keen to come despite how bad I’ve told you it will be? Do you not believe me?”
“I totally believe you. But I have to come.”
“You really don’t.”
Fuck. There’s only one last thing I can try. Good old-fashioned, cards-on-the-table honesty.
“Okay.” I withdraw my arms and pull my shirt down again. “If I’m going to expect you to bare your soul to me with all the traumas of your life so I can write your book, I guess it’s only fair I’m totally truthful with you too.”
He folds his arms and nods while pulling his lips inward to form a thin line.
“Time to sit for takeoff.” Melanie’s voice right behind me makes me jump.
Guess I’m a bit edgy.
“Two minutes,” Oliver says to her over my shoulder before turning his gaze back to me. “Go on.”
“You know how you feel like your whole future depends on this book being a success?”
He nods.
“Well, mine does too. I wasn’t entirely honest when I said my next job is signed and sealed and nothing can affect it.”
“Judging from the way Melanie is pacing, you have more like thirty seconds to explain that.”
“The part about me getting the war correspondent position I’ve always wanted is true. But the part I didn’t tell you is that it’s dependent on me writing your book. And if I don’t meet the deadline, I end up with no job at all.”
That is not information I ever wanted to share.
Information is power. And it’s always best to not let anyone have anything on you.
But now that I’ve revealed the giant weakness of how very, very much I have to write this book, I have to believe he won’t take advantage of it.
And hope that he’ll see that if I am trusting him, he can trust me.
I can’t remember a time I’ve ever felt more vulnerable.
“Well, that’s not what I was expecting,” he says. “But your ability to sum up what’s clearly a very complex situation in less than ten seconds is impressive.”
“And it means that while I’ve spent my whole life hating the wealth and privilege that you’re the absolute epitome of and you’ve spent your whole life hating reporters, it is in both our interests that we get along here and work together for the sake of our futures.”
His eyes scan my face for a second before he says, “Why the venom for people like me?”
I drop my head, shake it, and sigh. This is not the time or the place for that story. “That really doesn’t matter, nor is it the issue.”
And I’m becoming less certain by the second that I have anything at all against him in particular.
“What is the issue?” he asks.
“That right now, given the bizarro situation we both find ourselves in, I’m the best person to help you, and you are the best person to help me. We need each other.”
“I have to get you seated for takeoff now.” Melanie’s so close her sharp breath whizzes by my ear.
Oliver’s gaze settles on mine, his eyes searching my face in a way that makes my chest tremble—purely out of nerves that he’s about to tell me to get lost one final time.
He squares his broad shoulders, which rise on a long inhale and fall slowly on a long exhale.
Then he takes his seat and nods to the one opposite.
I let out a strangled oh that releases all the pent-up tension, panic, and stress I’ve been carrying since I read his text earlier, and sit.
“I promise you, Oliver, you will not regret this.”
“You probably will though,” he says.
I fasten my seat belt and buckle up.