Chapter 9
I sat alone on an extremely luxurious private jet, the seat a buttery tan leather, wide and opulent and incredibly soft.
And yet, I couldn’t find a comfortable position no matter what I did.
And I’d tried everything: legs crossed, feet flat, knees up, knees down, slouching, not slouching, leaning, not leaning, reclined.
Nothing felt right. I blamed the softness of the seat.
The seat was so soft, it made me suspicious. What did it want? What was it after?
Why so soft, seat? What’s your angle?
The air inside the jet was scented with the faintest possible trace of something herbal and medicinal, but in a good way.
The lighting was diffuse, perfectly white, but not in a fluorescent, headache-inducing way.
Rather, more like “every molecule of air has been personally adjusted for your optimal comfort” white. This, also, felt suspicious.
Why so pleasant, light? What’s your angle?
Growing up as I did, I liked to think I’d trained myself to have an internal gyroscope that always pointed toward efficiency over enjoyment.
Unfortunately, right now, sitting in this too comfortable seat surrounded by the too nice atmosphere of the jet, it spun erratically, like someone had taken a crowbar to it.
I reminded myself several times that private jets were a complete waste of money and inefficient use of resources.
At some point over the last forty-five minutes since leaving the pre-school, my nervous system had rerouted the electricity allotted for rage-fueled vengeance into an alternate task: how to maintain several hundred pensions without taking a giant loss on my acquisition of the Weston Company and the Malcom lands.
My brain darted around in various directions, all of which were inefficient, as I talked myself out of, and then back into, resurrecting my father’s business.
And it made me angry that I couldn’t bring myself to be angry about it, not when fixing the company would ultimately help Mrs. Boone, her soon-to-be retiring husband, and their three kids. Not to mention my old boss, Mr. G.
The other thing causing my gyroscope to malfunction: Alaric kissing me under a literal bough of mistletoe at the Bluebonnet Country Day School.
Even while inefficiently debating how best to save the Weston pension fund, I hadn’t stopped thinking about the kiss.
Not in an “I am lovesick and floating on clouds” way, but in a “there is a fire alarm blaring and I cannot reach the off switch” way, or a “would someone please pick up that baby so they’ll stop crying” way, or a “I have a hair in my mouth and I can’t get it out” way.
I tried, with limited success, to focus on my phone—endeavoring to read email now that I had cell coverage—and not the phantom sensation of Alaric’s hand on my jaw.
Eventually, too restless to concentrate, I gave up and walked the aisle.
I ran my finger along the back of the next seat, found a seam in the leather, and picked at it.
It held firm. Circling back, I sat down again and forced myself to stay put.
I did not wish to look out the window, so I stared at the table in front of me.
It was topped with some kind of matte stone, heavy and cool to the touch.
Disgusted with myself, I folded my arms and glared at nothing.
I didn’t understand. He’d kissed me on the cheek—on the cheek!
—not on the mouth or anywhere else deserving of this much distraction.
It was no big deal. He probably kissed his grandma on the cheek.
Basically, he’s treating me like I’m his grandma.
“We should be taking off in fifteen minutes.”
The sound of Alaric’s voice startled me. Sitting up, I watched as Alaric claimed the seat across from mine. He seemed to immediately find a comfortable position. It figured. He was likely used to the super soft seats, herbal air, and expensive lighting.
While he buckled his seatbelt, I openly inspected Alaric for any sign that the cheek kiss had given him any level of unease at all. Irritatingly, he looked completely at ease.
Since I allowed my gaze to dawdle a beat too long, he caught me watching him.
“What? What is it?”
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re going,” I asked, refusing to be embarrassed for having been discovered staring. If he didn’t want me staring at him, he shouldn’t give me grandma cheek kisses.
Alaric lifted his arms and laced his hands behind the back of his head. He then trailed a lazy, hazy, heated gaze from my eyes to the cheek he’d kissed. “You did a great job participating this morning. I’m very proud of you.”
The way he said the words, low and deep and intimate, left me with the impression that Alaric wasn’t referring to my interactions with the preschoolers or the assembly of cinnamon ornaments.
My neck felt suddenly hot for no reason.
No. That wasn’t true.
My neck felt hot because of how Alaric was looking at me and what he’d just said and how he’d said it, which only made my internal efficiency gyroscope spin in another fruitless circle.
Much like my soft seat, he was being suspicious.
Ensuring my voice was modulated to as robotic as possible, I pretended to inspect my suit skirt for errant pieces of lint. “If you recall, my participation is contractually obligated.”
While he continued to stare at me and I pretended not to notice, I decided to review what I knew to be true: Back in Chicago at the hotel bar, Alaric had been hitting on me.
He’d liked me when we were teenagers and found me at least a little attractive now.
I understood how a person might continue to have curiosity about their high school crush well into adulthood.
That made sense to me because I, also, had residual curiosity where Alaric was concerned.
“Are you sure your participation wasn’t more than just contractual obligation?” he asked. “You seemed to have a good time. At least, you made no objections.”
Studying him openly again, I couldn’t help but wonder what he hoped to gain from the cheek-kiss earlier and this lazy, heated, flirty interaction now.
After discovering my plans for Duke, the Weston Company, and Alenbach last Saturday at my office, I’d assumed any and all interest in me personally had ceased.
Obviously, the only reason he’d called in that old IOU and forced me to spend three days with him was to convince me not to close the Weston Company.
I hypothesized that if I promised—right now—to resurrect my father’s failing company and keep the good people of Alenbach gainfully employed, he’d probably end the contract, let me off this plane, and we’d say goodbye for good.
Therefore. . . Why so flirty, Alaric? What’s your angle?
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask exactly this question when I suddenly remembered the cinnamon bears we’d made. We’d left them behind!
“Oh no!” I sucked in a breath and sat up straight in my seat.
Alaric’s hands dropped from behind his head and he also sat up, instantly alert. “What? What’s wrong?”
“We left our ornaments!” I wanted to laugh at how the words sounded, but all I felt was a quicksilver regret. “Our bears. The ones we made. The cinnamon ornaments. We left them.”
With a small smile, Alaric relaxed back into his seat again. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure someone picks them up before the end of the day and takes them back to the house. They’ll be waiting for us when we get home.”
I slumped back in the seat, tension rolling off my shoulders. “Good. That’s good. Thank you.” For a second, I let myself bask in the relief.
It surprised me how much I wanted that ornament. I wasn’t a sentimental person at all, but I definitely wanted it. Perhaps because it was a tangible memento of my time and relationship with Mrs. Boone. Whatever the reason, it was important to me, just like she was important to me, and—
Wait a minute.
My gaze sliced to Alaric. “You did that on purpose.”
He pretended to be confused. “What? Forget the bears? I didn’t. I’m very attached to my Alybear.”
I slow-blinked. “You named your cinnamon ornament?”
He looked genuinely taken aback. “Didn’t you?”
“Obviously, I’m referring to Mrs. Boone’s husband, not the bears. How convenient that he just so happens to work at Weston Chemical, a subsidiary of the Weston Company. You set me up.”
His eyebrows drew together, the confusion appearing genuine this time. “What are you talking about?”
“You must’ve somehow known how the pension fund will be gone once I take over the company, the bylaws were never updated to add takeover protections because Duke kept vetoing the measures so he could borrow against it.
You set me up to meet with Mrs. Boone today so that I would feel bad and rethink my plans. ”
Alaric contemplated me for a measured moment, then shook his head. “Honestly, I did not know about any of that. He vetoed protections?”
“Then why bring me to the preschool?” I pressed, ignoring his question.
“Admit it. You were trying to make me feel guilty. It’s not going to work.
I’m not changing my plans.” I’d just have to take a loss on the deal.
I’d maintain the pension fund, but I absolutely would not rescue the company. And that was that.
Surprisingly, he met my stubborn stare with one of equal force. “Believe what you want, but that is not why I took you there.”
His unexpectedly hard tone and the frustrated glint in his eyes had me backing off my initial indignation. Alaric’s denial was too sharp and raw, it felt and looked real.
But then, why else bring me there?
A chime sounded, soft and impersonal. The pilot’s voice, gentle and Midwestern, came over the speaker: “We’ve been cleared for takeoff. Please be seated and buckle your seatbelts. We’ll be wheels up in three minutes.”
I yanked my belt across my lap with unnecessary force, locked it, and turned my glare up a notch. Alaric did the same, not breaking eye contact.