Chapter 3
THREE
MASON
“Careful.”
My hand hovers an inch from Phoenix’s lower back as she navigates the jet’s narrow stairs in her four-inch heels.
She’s wearing oversized sunglasses despite the overcast morning, her copper hair pulled into what she probably thinks is a messy bun but actually took twenty minutes to arrange.
The leather jacket draped over her shoulders costs more than most people’s monthly rent, but underneath she’s wearing yoga pants and a well-worn hoodie that was a wrap gift for the made-for-TV movie that was one of her earliest roles.
Somehow she manages to look both exhausted and effortlessly elegant.
She wobbles on the third step.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, gripping the railing harder.
I stay close enough to catch her if she falls. Not that she’d thank me for it. Phoenix hates appearing weak almost as much as she hates mornings, and combining the two with a hangover creates a perfect storm of irritability.
The cabin smells like leather and that particular blend of coffee only available on airplanes—overpriced and underwhelming.
Phoenix collapses into the first available seat, rips off the sunglasses to toss on the seat beside her and lets out a groan that would be dramatic if I didn’t know exactly how much tequila she consumed last night.
I check my watch. 7:42 AM. We made it with eighteen minutes to spare, which considering I had to physically drag her out of bed, counts as a minor miracle.
No resentment touches me as I consider the morning’s logistics—getting her showered, dressed, caffeinated enough to function.
She’s always been the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever encountered, all sharp edges wrapped in silk and self-destruction.
Getting paid to take care of her feels like gaming the system when I’d happily do it for free.
Pathetic, a voice in my head whispers. Three years of this and she still doesn’t see you.
I silence it with practiced ease.
“Here.” I set a bowl of fresh fruit on the tray table in front of her—strawberries, blueberries, chunks of pineapple. “Eat something.”
“Not hungry.”
“You need food in your stomach.” I pull the prescription bottle from my jacket pocket, shake out a single white pill. “This isn’t good to take on an empty stomach.”
Phoenix eyes the Xanax like it might bite her even as she reaches out to take it. “I hate flying.”
“I know.”
“It’s unnatural. Humans weren’t meant to be thirty thousand feet in the air in a metal tube.”
“I know.”
“We could drive to Montreal. It’s only—“
“Twenty-four hundred miles. We could make it in two days if we wear diapers and don’t stop to eat.” I place the pill next to her fruit bowl. “Which would mean missing tonight’s screening, tomorrow morning’s interviews and our flight to London.”
She glares at me through her sunglasses. Even hungover and grumpy, she’s stunning in that careless way that makes people write songs about her. The morning light filtering through the jet’s windows catches the copper in her hair, turning it to flame.
“I hate it when you’re logical.”
“No, you don’t.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “No, I don’t.”
I settle into the seat across from her, pulling out my phone to review today’s schedule. Montreal arrival at 11:30 AM Eastern. Hotel check-in, then lunch with local press at 1:00. Red carpet at 6:00, screening at 7:00, after-party she’ll want to skip but can’t.
“Mase?”
“Mm?”
“Did you eat?”
The question catches me off guard. Phoenix rarely notices anything beyond the best way to keep herself upright when she’s hungover. “I grabbed something at the hotel.”
“Liar.”
She pushes the fruit bowl between us, a peace offering wrapped in concern. I take a strawberry to appease her, the sweetness sharp against my empty stomach. Truth is, I’ve been running on coffee and anxiety since 4 AM, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh.” I set my phone down, steeling myself for her reaction. “There’s been a small change to the flight manifest.”
Phoenix freezes with a piece of pineapple halfway to her mouth. “What kind of change?”
“An addition to passenger list. Made sometime late last night.”
“Mason.” Her voice drops to that dangerous register that usually precedes thrown objects. “Who?”
“The studio thinks it would be good press if you and Atticus arrive together.”
The pineapple drops back into the bowl. Phoenix stares at me like I’ve just announced the plane will be dropping puppies from the cargo hold mid-flight for good luck.
“Atticus Sloan,” she says slowly, each syllable precise, “is about to get on this plane.”
“Assuming he makes our takeoff window.” I check my watch again. “He’s already twelve minutes late.”
“I look like shit.”
She doesn’t. Even hungover, even in yoga pants and a hoodie that’s seen better days, she looks like what she is—a movie star playing at being casual. But I know better than to argue when she’s spiraling.
Phoenix yanks her scarf up around the lower half of her face, pulls her hood up despite the controlled cabin temperature, and adjusts her sunglasses like they’re armor.
“Better?”
She looks like she’s either hiding from paparazzi or planning to rob a bank.
“You look fine.”
“Liar.”
“Since when do you care what Atticus thinks?”
“I don’t,” she says, voice muffled by the scarf.
The lie hangs between us, obvious as the designer labels on those damn yoga pants hugging her ass.
I’ve watched Phoenix around plenty of men over the past three years—directors, actors, the occasional civilian who catches her eye.
She’s either dismissive or cautiously interested, but never this agitated. Never this aware.
Footsteps on the jet stairs save me from having to respond.
Atticus appears in the doorway like he’s stepping onto a stage, all casual elegance and calculated charm.
He’s wearing jeans that fit too well to be accidental and a henley that shows off arms I definitely don’t notice.
His dark hair is artfully mussed, and he smells like expensive cologne.
The woman rushing in behind him is less of a surprise. Stephanie, the studio publicist, is blonde, aggressive, and the kind of omega who compensates for her designation by being twice as cutthroat as any alpha.
“Morning,” Atticus says, his voice rough in a way that suggests very little sleep. His gaze slides over Phoenix’s bundled form with amusement. “Going incognito today?”
Phoenix doesn’t respond, just turns to stare out the window like the tarmac is fascinating.
Atticus drops into a captain’s chair near us, sprawling with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.
“We should go over the talking points for the Montreal press junket,” Stephanie announces, not bothering with pleasantries. “Questions have been pre-provided to invited media representatives, but I’d like to make sure your answers are consistent.”
“I need to sleep.” Phoenix pulls a blanket from the overhead compartment, wrapping it around herself like a cocoon. “Wake me when we land.”
“Phoenix, this is important—”
“Talk to me when we’re at cruising altitude.” She disappears under the blanket completely, effectively ending the conversation. “I can’t be awake for takeoff.”
Stephanie’s mouth purses like she’s sucking on a lemon. “This is exactly the kind of unprofessional behavior that—”
“That sells tickets,” Atticus interrupts smoothly. “It’s fine. We’ll be answering the same softballs that we already have a dozen times.”
The look Stephanie gives him could melt steel, but she returns to her tablet, fingers flying across the screen with aggressive efficiency.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our imminent departure.
I buckle in, pull out my laptop, and try to focus on Phoenix’s schedule for the next week.
Five minutes after takeoff, Stephanie retreats to the back of the plane for a call.
Atticus drops into the seat directly across from me, close enough that I can smell that cologne again—Tom Ford Lost Cherry, something musky, opulent, and more expensive than it’s worth, but still too sweet to suit him.
“I’m surprised you didn’t invite any of the girls from the party last night to tag along.” I keep my voice neutral, eyes on my screen.
“Regrettably, I slept alone last night.” He stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin above his jeans. “Contrary to what some might think, my reputation as a player is a media exaggeration. I just play into it sometimes for fun.”
I continue typing, reviewing Phoenix’s contract for the Montreal appearances. “Your personal life is none of my business.”
“But Phoenix’s is.”
My fingers still on the keyboard. “I’m her assistant.”
“I have two questions for you.” He leans back, studying me with those green eyes that probably make lesser mortals swoon. “How long have you been in love with her? And does it bother you that she has absolutely no idea?”
The question hits like cold water. I force myself to keep breathing normally, to not react, but Atticus’s smile tells me I’ve already given myself away.
“I don’t—“
“Please.” He waves a hand dismissively. “The way you look at her? The way you anticipate her needs before she knows them herself? Either you’re in love with her or your dedication as an assistant is a form of self-harm.”
“Maybe I’m just good at my job.”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head, considering. “But I don’t think so. I think you’ve been carrying a torch for our leading lady for… what? The entire three years you’ve worked for her?”
I return to my laptop, typing with unnecessary force. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So you don’t notice the way her whole body relaxes when you walk into a room? You don’t see how she looks for you first at every event, every party? You don’t realize you’re the only person she trusts?”