Chapter 8 Gwen
GWEN
Ihated flying, but traveling like this—in a gorgeous private jet with every amenity under the sun—was something I could get used to.
I couldn’t allow myself to lean into the luxury, since flying private wasn’t going to be an ongoing part of my life once this job came to an end.
But for now? I was going to make the most of this oasis of pure traveling pleasure before I had to go back to endless lines and bare feet through the security checkpoint with the rest of the world.
I made sure to soak in every moment of feeling like a VIP, escorted directly from the black Town Car Harrison had sent for me to the tarmac. I sort of wished I’d worn a dramatic cape or an interesting hat and sunglasses, because my Ann Taylor separates weren’t fancy enough for the journey.
No surprise, my bosshole boss was already seated and waiting for me. He barely glanced up when I boarded.
Great. A sour mood already.
“Hel-lo,” I said, hitting the second syllable hard. “I’m here.”
“I see that,” Harrison answered, still glued to his phone.
I glanced around at the leather chairs. “Do you have a preference where I…”
“Ah, Miss Ackland, welcome,” a flight attendant appeared from behind me. “I’m Dominic. We have a seat all ready for you.”
For a second, I was shocked Harrison had hired a male flight attendant and not a gorgeous woman. But when I thought about it, it made sense. This was a man who did not like distractions. I glanced at the seat across from Harrison and spied a navy tote bag waiting for me.
“Mr. Ashford wanted you to have the same travel experience Miss Rush would’ve had when she booked with us. That’s our VIP welcome bag, stocked with all the toiletries you might need during the flight, all Chanel, along with a branded lounge suit and socks.”
“Wow, that’s a super nice perk,” I marveled.
“It’s all Mr. Ashford,” Dominic replied proudly. “He thinks of everything.”
Everything except how to be friendly, apparently. Harrison didn’t even look up at us.
“Please don’t hesitate to press the call button if you need anything at all,” Dominic smiled at me.
“I’ll be coming through with fresh fruit shortly.
The meal options are on a card in the front pocket of your tote.
Mr. Ashford alerted us to your food concerns and preferences in advance, so you’ll have plenty of choices. ”
I was about to ask how he even knew what my preferences were but remembered that in Aspen, Harrison had paid attention during our time together. I dropped onto the sumptuous leather seat and pulled out the card from the bag, since Harrison was still refusing to engage.
I wasn’t surprised to discover the three meal choices were all dishes I’d enjoyed when we were together: truffle fries and a blue cheese burger, herb-crusted salmon, and parmesan risotto with mushrooms. And dessert?
He’d outdone himself with six options that could be ordered individually or scaled down to sample sizes so I could try all of them.
“This is really nice,” I said as I tucked the card back in the bag. “I’d love to travel this way all the time.”
Harrison snorted. “Wish I could say the same.”
I frowned at him. “What do you mean? The plane is stunning, your attendant is the sweetest, I didn’t have to fight any crowds to get here, we don’t have to worry about delays…”
He jabbed his finger toward the cockpit. “I’d rather be up there.”
It was news to me. “Wait, you fly?”
“Whenever I get the chance, which means that when I’m trapped back here, I’m miserable.”
I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the pilot. “Do you not trust the guy at the wheel? Do I need to worry?”
“No, Dan is a fine pilot. Bumpy landings, but nothing too bad.” He gestured toward the cockpit again. “I’d rather it be me, though. I love flying, but only if I’m the one in control. Otherwise, it’s just stressful.”
It was new intel on Harrison that I could file away.
I still hadn’t figured him out, but the control-freak leanings tracked with what I did know about the man.
I was more interested in what he said about loving flying.
I wanted to dig for more details, find out what it was about being in the air that spoke to him…
but that wasn’t really my place, was it?
“Don’t worry, I plan to keep you so busy during this flight you won’t have time to think about Bumpy Dan.”
I could’ve sworn I saw the corner of his mouth turn up, which I took as a win.
Dominic popped his head in. “We’re wheels up in three. Seat belts please.”
We both buckled up. The jet started moving down the runway, and I fought off a wave of nerves when I finally acknowledged that we were in a tiny aircraft compared to my regular travel. Maybe I wasn’t such a stoic flier after all?
I glanced out the window as we picked up speed.
“Stop worrying,” Harrison said. “The plane is perfectly safe.”
I spun to face him. “Who says I’m worrying?”
He jutted his chin to my hands, which I didn’t realize were death-gripping the arm rests so tightly my knuckles were white.
“I’m fine,” I fibbed.
“Your safety is assured when you fly Ashford,” he said, then picked up his phone and went back to pretending I wasn’t sitting one seat away.
I snorted at him. “You sound like a well-rehearsed sound bite.”
“According to my team, that’s the only form of communication I’m allowed going forward,” he said wryly. “I’m sure you’ll have more polished and perfected lines for me to recite like a ventriloquist’s dummy.”
He was right, I did have some lines I’d prepped for him to try to contextualize his courthouse debacle. Granted, I wanted his input to make them sound as natural and authentic as possible.
But when Harrison flipped open his laptop, I realized my plans to interrogate him about what actually happened that day needed to wait. It was fine; I had plenty to do as we kicked off the first leg of his apology tour.
I started off by reaching out to my contact at After Dark to confirm the details of the next few days, then moved on to scheduling the interviews for Variety and People.
The marketing team forwarded some additional ideas about possible press, and I took a call with their social media crew to talk about how we wanted to frame everything that was about to go down.
The challenge we were facing with our messaging was that Ashford Jets had a select, high-profile client base.
Many of them probably couldn’t name a single Scarlet Rush song and didn’t give a shit about the drama going down, so we needed to present the issue in a way that acknowledged it without making it the headline for folks who would otherwise be clueless.
Their current social media accounts focused on the luxury and dependability of Ashford Jets and never mentioned Harrison as a key player.
They didn’t have to, really, because he’d always been a bold-faced name thanks to his wealthy, socially prominent family. I appreciated his desire to stay in the background and let the product do the talking. But to deal with the current situation, things had to change.
The conference call with Bailey and Jace took longer than anticipated, and I noticed Harrison peering over at me as I discussed protecting his persona without sidestepping the issue that had gotten him into the mess in the first place.
It was a delicate balance, and while his social media gurus understood me in theory, they were having a hard time coming up with a way forward that would work for all parties.
I wound up doing what I’d always done; I took on the responsibility myself.
“I think our best approach is for me to come up with a few posts that straddle the line,” I finally said, eager to be done with the call.
“I’ll get some BTS footage while we’re in New York, come up with the captions, and send it to you to review.
We won’t dwell on it, but we won’t ignore it either. ”
It wasn’t my job, but then again, Ashford Jets’s team wasn’t exactly prepared to deal with a scandal of this size. And like Harrison had told me on my first day, everyone was expected to step up. For the salary he was paying me, I was more than willing to take a few strides.
I disconnected the call and took notes about my next steps.
“You’re nonstop,” Harrison said, and I swore I detected admiration in his voice.
“It’s crunch time,” I answered with a shrug. “We need to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
I silently debated if I needed to throw out more corporate jargon clients seemed to expect, like putting a pin in things and circling back.
“What’s your deal?” Harrison asked. “How did you get into all of this?”
I turned to him slowly. Was he actually interested in learning about my life? We’d never gotten into our backstories during our time in Aspen, preferring to live in the moment.
The very sexy, rarely dressed, sweaty and delicious moment. My skin flushed as the memories hit me. Tangled sheets, his mouth on my neck, his hands running down the side of my body…
Those same hands were right here, just a glance away. Shockingly big, with buffed nails and the veins to prove he worked out every day. I forced myself not to remember them caressing my body. How they could go from strong to tender in an instant.
“Gwen?”
“Right!” I jerked back to reality. “My background? Um, I actually started my PR journey with none other than Hildy Bartholomew.” I waited for him to look impressed, but he just shook his head with an apologetic shrug.
Okay, maybe name dropping didn’t do much when you were talking to someone who didn’t know the key players in your industry. “Trust me, she was a legend. Contacts so deep she could get the CEO of The New York Times on the phone any time of day.”
Harrison bobbed his head. “Impressive. So she taught you everything you know?”
“Basically. I consider myself very lucky because she took me under her wing. But then she had to go and retire.” I half smiled. “The jerk.”