2. Jake
Jake
I was halfway through a meeting when I got the SOS from my best friend, which led to endless text-bombing that kept my phone in a perpetual state of vibration for five minutes. I was in a meeting, one I couldn’t step away from or even glance at my phone’s screen.
Warren: I don’t know who is worse. YOUR mother or MINE.
Warren: They made Yara cry. My bride should not be inconsolably crying like this from planning our goddamn wedding. I will go no-contact with EVERYONE if they don’t get their shit straight.
Warren: Change of plans. We’re eloping.
Warren: You ARE coming. I need my best man, and Yara needs at least one family member there that she likes.
Warren: Only us, you, Jude and his girlfriend, and Yara’s college BFF.
Warren: FYI, I still have no fucking idea who your brother is dating. Jude has been very cloak-and-dagger about it. Keeps saying he wants to surprise his mom at the wedding. Guess we will find out this weekend, though.
Warren: Buckle up, buttercup. We ride at dawn.
Warren: Okay, so maybe dusk, given the timing and shit. Whatever. It’s gonna be a great weekend. I’m marrying the love of my life.
I had no idea if he was drunk or just stupid-happy.
Since he’d finally pulled his head out of his ass and told Yara he loved her, he’d been different.
Good different. When Yara had first left for college—and the subsequent miserable years that had followed while she’d “spread her wings and discovered herself”—Warren had been a pain in the ass. In the worst possible ways.
He had only himself to blame for that dark period in his life. Unlike some brothers, I’d never warned him off my baby sister, and not just because of the whole marriage-business-merging/crazy-mothers thing. I was fairly sure I knew that idiot was in love with Yara before he did.
The next text was a link to the hotel in Hawaii where the supposed elopement was taking place.
Then came one with flight details. His personal assistant had already booked me a first-class ticket, while my personal assistant would meet me at the airport with a small case of everything I needed for the spontaneous long weekend.
I’d been so busy since moving to Los Angeles, I needed two PAs these days. One for work, the other for my “social calendar,” as my mother called it.
Expanding the Wilson and Kline business to the West Coast was important for the blended companies.
I’d been working eighteen- to twenty-hour days for weeks, and we were finally getting the new branch running smoothly.
Any kind of break was a godsend at this point.
My body was running on fumes. I hadn’t slept more than three hours a night in months.
Taking conference calls from our global clients and investors meant sometimes having one a.m. virtual meetings with Japanese subsidiaries.
Or it had been a Kline subsidiary until last week.
Now it would be wholly owned by Wil-Kline once the final documents were filed.
I’d been putting in the hours to get the two family businesses integrated so my sister could banish whatever lingering doubt she might still have about that idiotic contract our parents had signed before she was ever born.
Now, the two businesses were fully blended, and that clause about Yara and Warren having to marry for Warren or me to retain our forty percent share of each company had been stricken from the contract.
With all the bullshit our mom and her future mother-in-law had been throwing at Yara, I was happy to get that little detail cleared away, once and for all.
Even if the two nagging mothers were still trying to get me engaged to Warren’s sister, Marsha.
Irritation rippled through me at the mere idea.
Marsha was too much like her mom. I tolerated her about as much as Warren did, which wasn’t at all.
She’d been causing mischief with the moms about wedding details for months.
Yara wanted simple, minimalist, classic. Our moms and Marsha had other ideas. Flashy, extravagant, pretentious. The mayor’s son and the governor’s granddaughter couldn’t have a low-key wedding. It had to be spectacular.
Their version of spectacular was Yara’s equivalent of tacky as fuck—which, fair. I don’t know jack shit about weddings, but those three had warped vision boards, compared to Yara’s dream day.
Marsha had found ways to make changes without Yara’s permission on not only the small stuff, but the bigger things that were the most important to my sister.
No doubt, with help from both moms. I didn’t know a person could have a mental breakdown over table linen and napkins until I got the video Warren sent me as proof.
Yara had been yelling, loud and unintelligible, as she choked Marsha with one of the napkins.
My sister was a bit of a hothead.
If Marsha had a working brain, she would have learned her lesson long before the napkin debacle.
Instead, she only got stupider. After the napkins, the cake became the next obstacle.
Warren sent another picture of his bride-to-be smashing his sister’s face into a plate of samples hard enough that Marsha got more than just covered in frosting.
She had a black eye for at least a week.
It wasn’t the first time Yara had given Marsha a shiner, but it might have been my favorite to date. It wasn’t likely to be the last time it happened either. Yara could be the most loyal, kindhearted, beautiful soul. She could also be petty, vicious, and cold-blooded.
All traits that I loved in my little sister. She didn’t half-ass anything. It was also why I was low-key terrified of her.
Taking my seat in first class, I gave my neighbor a chin lift and asked for water when the flight attendant offered refreshments. The guy in the window seat beside me was on a call, his computer open, typing rapidly as he spoke. I settled in, sipping my water while the plane filled up.
Not surprisingly, it was a full flight. I imagined Hawaii was a popular destination any day of the week.
As instructed by my best friend, I had left all work-related items with my assistant. Warren had sent me a follow-up text before I even stepped onto the plane, cautioning me that Yara would go nuclear if I so much as looked at a work email this weekend.
Apparently, baby sis was worried about me and all the long hours I’d put in recently.
Eventually, the crew began final-call prep. I hadn’t seen anyone board in a good five minutes. But at the last possible second, a whirlwind stepped through the door. Out of breath, her brow beaded in sweat, she apologized profusely as she hurried past.
Blue-gray eyes were what caught my attention first, and everything around me disappeared.
Then her lips came into focus. Naturally full and slightly sculpted, as if her creator had agonized over the exact shape.
A small, perfect nose that was the tiniest bit upturned at the tip.
Freckles, just a sprinkle of them across her nose, a few shades darker than her golden tan.
Her body was hidden under a hoodie and black yoga pants, white running shoes on her feet.
I took it all in, cataloging her beauty in a heartbeat.
Feeling like lightning had struck me, I unconsciously turned my head, watching as the newcomer bounced down the aisle to the rear of the plane like an agile rabbit. Her backpack shifted her hoodie up, giving me a view of her luscious ass molded beneath her yoga pants.
Only when she disappeared into her seat did I finally blink. She had a middle seat close to the rear bathroom. We were on the same plane, going to the same destination, yet I felt unexpectedly bereft. A hollow ache hit my chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe for a moment.
Too far away. I needed to get closer. Hear her voice. Make her smile. Find out what she smelled like—what her skin felt like.
The flight attendant asked if I wanted something stronger than water before we began to taxi toward the runway. Sucking in a breath, I forced myself to turn forward, shaking off the weird sensation, and gave her my most charming smile.
“Is it too late to switch seats?”