Chapter 1
Ten years. It’s been ten years since that disastrous night in Harlem, that ended with Tony getting arrested for peeing on the street, Mila vomiting all the way back to our room in Carman Hall, and Robbie professing his eternal love for her anyway.
Ten years since I ended up in the hospital with food poisoning and still can’t smell peanuts without wanting to puke. Ten years since Jasper Hassmann came into my life and, ever since, I’ve never hated anything as much as I hate him.
Rush hour on a crowded subway during a rainstorm? It could be worse. It could be Jasper Hassmann.
A total blackout in New York City two hours before I have to turn in my article for the All-Star Chronicles? It could be worse. It could be Jasper Hassmann.
Travel back in time to 1912 and sink with the Titanic? Honestly, could still be worse. It could be traveling anywhere with Jasper Hassmann.
But, with my luck, you can probably guess exactly what’s happening, right?
I’m boarding a plane to Cancún, and that wretched traitor who calls herself my best friend forgot to tell me I’d be sitting right next to Jasper Hassmann.
The ticket was a gift from her. She wanted me to fly first-class because I’m the maid of honor she loves so much and wants nothing but to make me happy.
Her words, not mine.
She and Robbie flew out yesterday with both families so they could get the house ready.
Can I call it a house? Maybe the right term is villa.
That’s what rich people call ten-bedroom mansions with infinity pools overlooking the Caribbean Sea, right?
Since I have a job and need it to pay my bills, unlike Mila, I could only travel after my Friday shift.
It was already a miracle that Mr. Kyle, my editor at the All-Star Chronicles, agreed to give me a full week off.
There was no way he’d let me miss another day of work (especially today, the National Badminton Championship finals) because of a wedding that wasn’t even mine.
Well, if Mr. Kyle had to wait for my wedding to give me a vacation, I’d probably die without ever taking one. But let’s not get into that right now.
Being single for the rest of my life still wouldn’t be as bad as Jasper Hassmann.
I was going to buy my own ticket. A normal ticket, for normal passengers with normal salaries. First, because that’s what I am: the normal friend of an Upper East Side heiress who’s marrying a finance bro from Wall Street. Secondly, because… well, because it’s a four-hour flight.
There’s hardly enough time for the Dramamine to kick in before you have to land.
So no, I wasn’t looking for any special treatment. But Mila insisted. Said I deserved it for helping with all the wedding prep. Told me not to worry because a bunch of other guests would be on the same flight as well.
A bunch of guests? Ha! That deceitful bitch!
I fell for her shit once again, didn’t I?
Jasper blinks slowly when he spots me in the aisle, still stunned and slack-jawed as I double-check my ticket to make sure I didn’t misread it and, maybe, my seat is actually anywhere else.
It’s a relatively short flight, and the plane is relatively small, so there are only five rows of first-class seats, two moderately comfortable seats on each side and a not-so-wide aisle between them.
So even if, by some miracle, I had gotten a seat far away, “far” doesn’t really exist on a plane this size.
But if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that God doesn’t really give me miracles. Not today, not ever. So yes, obviously, of course, inevitably, my seat is right next to his.
I start trying to shove my carry-on into the overhead bin and, because it weighs way more than it looks and I’m barely over five feet tall, the whole process is a special kind of hell.
Mostly because my backpack keeps sliding off my shoulder, my travel pillow keeps smacking the poor man sitting in front of me, and the suitcase keeps trying to fall back because my biceps are moments away from giving up entirely.
I slam the suitcase into the compartment with a colossal thud that makes everyone nearby look up, just in time for my backpack to slip and crash onto the floor. So I try to adjust myself and stumble over the strap, grabbing the seat in front of me so I don’t fall.
Jasper presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose and takes a long breath. He looks like he’s about to say something when a flight attendant appears beside me in the aisle, holding a champagne flute on a silver tray.
“Your drink, sir,” she says, lowering the tray in his direction.
“Actually, could you bring me some vodka?” He asks.
The flight attendant’s mouth parts, a little stunned, as if she’s trying to figure out whether she misheard the order or he simply changed his mind.
She starts to straighten again, lifting the tray, still confused when Jasper grabs the flute and adds, “No, leave it. And bring the vodka too.”
I pick my bag off the floor and lift the blanket-and-pillow kit onto my seat so I can sit down. The pillow immediately slips out of my hands and falls into the space between our seats.
Only when the flight attendant returns with a clean glass and a miniature bottle of Absolut that I’m settled enough to ask, “Why is it that every time I see you, you’re holding a drink?”
“Every time you see me?” he repeats with fake surprise. Then his voice drops into pure boredom as he adds, dripping sarcasm, “I can’t imagine why that might be.”
I roll my eyes.
If he’s implying he needs to drink every time he sees me, I’m not arguing. A drunk Jasper is far less insufferable than a sober Jasper, so drink up, dear. Drink until you forget how to speak. I won’t complain.
“I know you think every woman on earth is dying to be here today, but this wasn’t my decision, okay? This is Mila’s fault.” I explain myself before his already gigantic ego expands so much it needs its own seat on the plane. “Did she buy your ticket too?”
“No, Julia, I bought my own ticket. Because I have a job,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining each word to someone who struggles with basic comprehension.
Ten years since that day, and the bastard still hasn’t learned my name. I don’t even bother complaining anymore. It’s been ten years since I started referring to him as Jasper Assman every time I have to mention him. Which, considering he’s Robbie’s best man, has been happening a lot lately.
“Should have bought the seat next to mine too,” he mutters under his breath. “It would’ve been worth every penny.”
I silently thank the heavens for him choosing those particular words to provoke me, because I know exactly what to say next.
It’s not often I have the perfect comeback ready on my tongue when it comes to Jasper.
“And whose name would you book that ticket under? Jasper Hassmann’s Giant Ego?”
Jasper rolls his eyes and tears open the vodka bottle, drinking straight from it instead of using the glass.
Ha! Victory!
“Or… you could’ve simply chosen a different seat,” I suggest.
“Right, because I could totally predict that Mila would perform her charity of the year and buy you a first-class seat next to mine!” he snaps immediately.
Then he takes another bitter sip and adds, “I mean, all I’ve got is an Ivy League degree and a law degree from Stanford.
I don’t have one in crystal-ball reading and witchcraft. That’s your area of expertise.”
Ah, yes. That’s why he was studying at Tony’s infamous birthday party. He needed top grades to get into Stanford Law. Which, fortunately for me, he did. He got accepted, aced every interview, then spent five years living in California because of it.
Those were five years of pure peace, let me tell you. Five years when I only had to see him during holidays and school breaks. Besides that, only vague updates whenever Robbie mentioned him.
Five peaceful years! Then he came back with a hard face, full beard, expensive suit and a body you’d never expect a lawyer to bother with. He’s rich and smart, he doesn’t really have to be hot.
But stupid Jasper Hassmann just wants it all.
He went off to California and came back looking like one of those Turkish-soap-opera guys. Like the powerful prosecutor, the brooding hitman, or the ruthless attorney who twists the truth for a living and somehow still looks like he’s being photographed for a Paco Rabanne cologne ad.
Which sums Jasper up perfectly. Well, not the prosecutor or hitman part, but the ruthless, devastatingly attractive lawyer who loves money more than anything? That’s spot-on.
And he absolutely smells like Paco Rabanne, by the way.
I inhale deeply, trying not to think about all the ways he’s insulted me in the last ten years, and decide to be the sane one on this trip. For Mila and Robbie.
For my mental health.
So I ask, “Can we at least pretend, just once in our lives, that we don’t hate each other?”
“I don’t think about you enough to hate you, Julia. You show up, I drink, I go home and forget you exist until the next time I have to see you.” He then pushes the Champagne flute into my hand. “It’s a four-hour flight. I suggest you do the same.”
I take the glass with a grimace, because he’s basically shoving it in my face and I know he won’t stop until I do what he wants. I don’t even know if I want a drink.
There isn’t enough Champagne in the world to make me tolerate this man and all his arrogance, so I just say, “I hope the plane crashes.”
Because honestly, death might still be less painful than four hours next to him.
And here we are: the plane nose-diving into the Gulf of Mexico, and I’m thinking: hey, it could be worse, it could be Jasper Hassmann.
“And you wonder why I drink every time you’re around,” Jasper says, bored as always, but his fingers are squeezing the little vodka bottle way too hard as he finally pours what’s left of it into the glass of ice on his tray.
His knuckles turn white, the veins and tendons nearly popping out of the skin, and now that I’m looking closely at his face, his jaw is clenched so tight I can see it even through his dark beard.
But I only discover the real reason for that after about three miniature vodka bottles and two hundred boarded passengers. The plane doors close, the flight attendants begin their checks, and the pilot announces we’re ready for takeoff.
The plane shudders.
Accelerates.
The engines roar and — oh my God, I cannot believe what I’m seeing!
“Are you kidding me?” I gasp, in absolute shock, as we pick up speed and my body vibrates with the fuselage, like we’re all merging into one trembling unit. “Are you actually kidding me? The great, magnificent, almighty Stanford criminal defense attorney Jasper Hassmann is afraid of flying?”
Jasper squeezes his eyes shut and I watch his body tremble beside mine.
He doesn’t look at me, but he somehow finds the strength to say — loud, louder than I’ve ever heard him speak, and I don’t know if it’s to overpower the engines or because he’s genuinely terrified, “My parents died in a plane crash, Julie!”
Shit. What?
Shit, shit! What have I done?
“Oh my God, I—I didn’t kn—” I stammer, horrified. Then I stop and think. Son of a bitch! “Wait a second, that’s not true!”
“How do you know?”
How would I know? How does he manage to lie to my face while gripping the armrests like he’s about to rip them off, his face still unable to move by at least an inch?
The plane reaches that point of maximum acceleration, our bodies pinned to our seats, and then, without warning, it lifts off the ground.
Jasper swallows hard, his Adam’s apple more visible than ever as his head is pressed back against the seat.
“Because I MET your mother, Jasper!” I snap. “At your cousin Rudy’s wedding. She’s a very lovely woman who does not deserve the son she has.”
His eyes stay closed, but he shakes his head a few times, like he’s struggling to remember something.
“What the hell were you doing at my cousin’s wedding?”
“I was Connor’s guest,” I answer, slightly embarrassed.
Connor is also one of the groomsmen. He’s one of Robbie’s childhood friends, and, over the last decade, we all ended up knowing each other far more than we should.
“Oh. Right.” Jasper finally opens his eyes, still frowning as if something isn’t adding up. Then he asks, barely holding back a laugh, “Why? Were all his inflatable dolls broken?”
And I can barely hold back mine. Because Connor is a wannabe coach with a fake Rolex he bought at a gas station in Miami, who gets all his “wisdom” from pick-up-artist YouTube videos and scenes from The Wolf of Wall Street.
It’s not that he doesn’t have sex often. It’s that he really shouldn’t.
With people. With humans. With women. You know.
From personal experience, he doesn’t really know how.
He didn’t know how either of the two times I tried.
Because I’m like that. Depressing? Sure. Hopeful? Always. Willing to give a chance to some idiot because the guys I actually like treat me like garbage and I thought maybe Connor would be different? Of course.
Well, he wasn’t.
Guys like Connor think they’re living their best life and don’t even realize they’re huge assholes.
Guys like Connor get turned on by the release of some new Elon Musk cryptocurrency but, when they take you to bed, they finish in their pants and say things like “I can’t help myself because you’re so hot,” as if that’s some kind of gift.
I glance at Jasper, admiring him for just one second. Jasper Hassmann knows he’s an asshole. He doesn’t care. He actually loves it.
So yeah, as much as he’s an idiot, he’s right.
About Connor and his inflatable dolls. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to accept defeat and agree with whatever comes out of his mouth.
I study his profile for a moment. His eyes are open, and his hands have relaxed on the armrests. He clearly looks calmer now that the noise has softened and we’re climbing steadily, gliding through the air like a big bird.
Then the plane jolts and he tenses all over again.
I’ve never felt so powerful sitting next to someone as I do now.
“What part of flying freaks you out so much?” I ask, doing everything I can to hold back my wicked smile.
“Please don’t talk to me right now.”
“Is it the fact that we’re in a giant metal can, defying every law of gravity, going five hundred miles per hour and about thirty thousand feet above the ground, depending entirely on two men who may or may not be sleepy and/or depressed?”
“Jesus Christ,” Jasper growls, still staring straight ahead. His knuckles losing color once again.
“Two men and a bunch of equipment and systems that may or may not have been properly lubricated?” I continue, leaning closer so my mouth is right by his ear.
“I hate you,” he says.
Hate? I thought he said he didn’t think about me enough for that.
“Then having to cross through who knows what kind of wind and rain and storms…”
“I hate you. I hate you so fucking much.”
I lean back into my seat at last, perfectly satisfied with my victory.
“I know you do.”