58. Rhett
Rhett
T he tension in the cabin could break bone.
Scarlett sat curled beside Trace, champagne in hand, skin glowing in the way that always looked half divine, half dangerous. Trace looked like he was seconds from combusting. Arms tight. Mouth tighter. Like he hadn’t unclenched his jaw in thirty-six hours.
So naturally, I slid into the seat across from them with the world’s most obnoxious grin and stretched my arms behind my head. “What’s up, lovebirds?”
Scarlett raised a brow. “You bored already?”
“Nah,” I said, kicking my feet up. “Just figured I’d make the emotional triangle a square.”
Trace set his drink down, gaze pinned to me like he was deciding where to aim. “Don’t.”
Which only made me grin harder. “Too late.”
Scarlett fought a smile behind the rim of her glass. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m a gift,” I corrected. “And you’re all sitting on a jet like you’re headed to your own funeral. Loosen up.”
She gave a low laugh—real and sharp-edged—and tilted her glass toward me. “Where exactly are we going again?”
Trace’s gaze flicked to me, fast and warning.
I held her eyes. Shrugged, easy. “Somewhere remote. Sun, sand, secrets. Sounds dreamy, right?”
She narrowed her eyes, catching something in my tone.
But I just smiled wider and leaned back in my seat, playing dumb with decades of practice.
Alden was still at the bar, pouring with the focus of a man trying not to explode. Zeke hadn’t moved. And Trace… Trace was all restraint and coiled heat.
And Scarlett?
She was the match they were all pretending not to strike.
I sat forward, elbows on my knees. “You know, if this ends with you running the place, I’m not even gonna be surprised.”
She blinked. “What?”
I smirked. “Just saying. You’ve got queen energy.”
Trace made a low sound that might’ve been a warning—or a growl.
Scarlett turned away, but the corners of her mouth lifted.
And for a second, the air felt almost easy.
Almost.
But I knew better.
Because I knew where we were going.
And I knew what was waiting when we landed.