Chapter 9
NINE
FLIC
FLIC: OMG I’m on an actual private jet!!!!!
IZZY: Have fun!
FLIC: I absolutely will not.
DYLAN: Don’t let Ashborne mess you around. And if he does, tell him I’ll personally introduce his face to the business end of a shovel.
FLIC: Noted. Will keep shovel-threat in back pocket.
OK, so I said I wouldn’t enjoy a single moment of spending time with Grayson Ashborne, but sitting on a private jet is actually pretty freaking exciting.
The cabin is all cream leather and dark wood, and soft lighting that makes the whole place glow like a billionaire’s Pinterest board.
Everything shines. Even the seatbelt buckle looks like it cost a small fortune.
It’s quiet too. If it wasn’t for the endless blue sky and a quilt of clouds drifting far, far below, I wouldn’t even know we were thirty thousand feet in the air.
I thought the chauffeured car Grayson sent to pick me up was ridiculous, but this is a whole new tax bracket of ridiculous. I run my hand across the armrest. It’s smooth to touch and was probably hand-conditioned by a guy named Lars who only works on Tuesdays.
I glance down at my clothes—bright red Stormhawks jersey, tight black jeans, and biker boots—and feel stupidly underdressed.
Sure, we’re heading to Buffalo for the wildcard playoff game, but I look like I should be behind my bar rather than flying private.
Whatever. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.
At the back of the cabin, Grayson sits with his phone pressed to his ear, talking quietly.
He has two laptops open in front of him, and his brow is drawn tight, like he’s personally carrying the weight of the entire Eastern Seaboard.
Even stressed, he looks good. Damn him. He’s wearing jeans—dark, expensive, of course—and a charcoal cashmere sweater that fits him absurdly well.
Broad chest, strong shoulders (thanks, Candy), sleeves pushed up his forearms. The dark sneakers are designer and the whole look screams money, but at least he doesn’t look like an asshole in a tailored power suit today. Just an asshole. Progress.
“Miss Moore?”
I look up to see the steward, who introduced himself as Nicholas earlier, smiling warmly. He looks around my age and has neat blond hair and a fitted navy polo with the Grayson Global logo stitched over his chest, and the cleanest beige chinos I’ve ever seen.
“Please call me Flic. Everyone does.”
“OK, Flic. I’m just checking you’re comfortable,” he says. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“A coffee would be great, please,” I reply.
“Of course. What kind?”
I can’t resist. “Any chance of an oat milk latte with two shots of caramel?”
His brows lift.
“I’m kidding,” I add quickly. “Anything is fine. Thank you.”
He laughs. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s a little over three hours to Buffalo. You might want to relax and watch a movie.”
I open my mouth to tell him I don’t see a TV anywhere, when he taps a discreet button on the armrest. A second later, a screen rises smoothly from the side of my seat.
“Oh,” I breathe. “OK, that’s… cool.”
“It’s touchscreen and has all the latest movies,” Nicholas says. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks.”
He walks away, and I scroll through the selection. Nicholas wasn’t kidding. There’s a Tom Cruise movie that literally came out in theaters last week. But nothing catches my attention.
I fidget. Tap my fingers. Shift in my seat.
Stare out at the endless sky. “Relax” isn’t a word in my vocabulary.
Sitting still might actually be a form of psychological torture.
My gaze drifts to Grayson’s laptops. I almost envy the work he’s buried in.
I wish I’d brought my own so I could pull up The Hay Barn’s accounts and start planning the changes I can finally make when rent isn’t a noose around my neck.
I can’t remember the last time I sat still and alone.
Even at Oakwood Ranch, I throw myself into helping Izzy and Dylan with the horses, or Mama in her kitchen, or playing with Mad.
There’s always someone to talk to, something to do.
And when I’m alone in the city, there’s always a beer tap to repair or something that needs to be cleaned or restocked.
I’m always working. Always moving. Until I hit my apartment, too tired for anything but sleep.
Then I get up the next day and do it all again.
And now I’m on a jet, thirty thousand feet in the air, with nothing but clouds, quiet, and an arrogant asshole I’m pretending I don’t notice.
What the hell am I doing here? The task ahead feels suddenly impossible.
It’s like Mama said—if I can’t convince the fans that Grayson isn’t enemy number one, their anger toward him could spill over onto me.
It wouldn’t just be my regulars I’d be worrying about then; it would be a full-on boycott of The Hay Barn.
The thought hits hard, a reminder of exactly why I’m here.
Not just for myself and my bar, but to help my team.
To help my family. To show Grayson that Denver and the Stormhawks matter.
At least a direct plea from the team has calmed the fans enough to put a hold on any more protests, even if the hate toward Grayson on the Red Zone is still going strong.
I’m no longer adding my own comments, but I’m still a long way off from defending him.
I wonder if he’s seen the meme of him getting chased across the field by a giant mascot who punts him straight into next week. The internet has truly outdone itself.
My thoughts drag back to my bar and the nagging unease that I should be there, not leaving it to Paul to run.
The bartender I’d worked with a few years ago had been focused and dedicated.
But Paul was late this morning and seemed distracted and disheveled in a gray hooded sweatshirt and a scraggly beard.
I was never going to be happy leaving the bar, but I wish I could feel like I trust him more than I do.
A lot of fans won’t be making the trip to Buffalo today, and while plenty will turn the game into a family event at home, just as many will end up at bars like mine, crowding around the big screen.
They’re my regulars, and the thought of something going wrong for them twists in my gut like I swallowed a handful of gravel.
I wish I could ask someone to swing by and check in, but I don’t exactly have a long list of people to call.
There’s Izzy and Dylan. Sure, they’d drop everything in a heartbeat.
But Izzy is less than two months away from giving birth, and the last thing I want is to steal Dylan away from her, Mad, and the ranch because I’m anxious.
Harper’s no good either. She’s already in Buffalo with Mama, prepping to watch the game from the skybox with me and Grayson. The same with Serena.
Which leaves… Mia, I realize, relief sweeping through me.
Mia was a few years below me and Jake in high school, and in the same homeroom as Chase, Serena, and Harper.
She’s to Harper what Izzy is to me, but between Harper marrying Jake and Izzy marrying Dylan, the three of us—plus Serena—have become a foursome.
Cocktails at our favorite restaurant—Bill’s—once a month have become a tiny tradition I look forward to.
I pull out my phone, hating that I’m asking, but knowing I won’t stop worrying if I don’t.
FLIC: Hey Mia, can I ask a favor?
MIA: Of course! Anything. Heard about your deal with the billionaire. Are we burying his body already?
FLIC: Not quite yet, but I’m on his private jet on the way to Buffalo and I’ve left The Hay Barn in the hands of a bartender I used to work with. I’m feeling a bit worried.
MIA: Say no more. I was going to force Edward to watch the game with me at home, but we’ll go to the bar instead.
FLIC: Thank you so much. I’m sure I’m worrying over nothing.
MIA: Hey, it’s your baby. I get it.
I slide my phone back into my pocket, relaxing a little.
Mia’s the VP of her family’s media company, Arquette Media.
I don’t know her fiancé, Edward, that well, but Mia handles crisis with the calm of a seasoned general.
I’d trust her with pretty much anything.
Including burying a body. I smile despite myself, right as my gaze involuntarily drifts to Grayson.
He looks up at that exact moment. His dark eyes meet mine, the tension in his brow easing for half a second as he offers me the briefest, softest smile. Then his phone rings again, the frown returns, and he turns back to his work.
A moment later, Nicholas returns, setting down a silver tray on the mahogany coffee table in front of me. Of course, he’s managed to fix me a caramel latte in a tall glass cup that looks like it belongs in a Starbucks commercial. Beside it is a tiny bag of cookies tied with a red ribbon.
“These cookies look so fancy I’m guessing they each have their own college fund.”
Nicholas laughs. “They’re baked fresh before every flight. Let me know if you want more.”
“Dangerous offer,” I mutter, already opening the bag, “but thank you.”
“Call me if you need anything else,” Nicholas says before disappearing behind a door just as Grayson drops into the seat opposite me, running a hand through his hair.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I’m midway through a project in New York. If I don’t keep a careful watch on how things are going, they don’t get done how I want them.”
“So, you’re a control freak,” I say, with mock sweetness to my tone.
“I care about my projects. If that makes me a control freak, I’ll take it.” His gaze flicks to me. “Whereas you are obviously feeling super relaxed about leaving The Hay Barn in someone else’s hands, right?”
My mouth drops open. “How did you—”
He smirks. Damn him!
My cheeks flush. “I’m perfectly calm.”
“Sure you are.” He tilts his head, eyes steady on mine. “Talk me through what to expect today?”
“You can expect a tough game,” I reply, feeling on safer ground with the topic of football. “It’s knockout now. One loss and we’re out. No do-overs. Today means everything.”
He leans forward, focusing on me as I continue.
“Our offense is solid with Chase as quarterback and Jake as tight end. They play instinctively, probably because they grew up playing together. Our defense is where we’re vulnerable,” I continue.
“The Warbears have a strong offense, too. And too many touchdowns slipped through our defensive line this season. If we want to make it to the divisional round next week, we need to keep things tight.”
Grayson’s mouth tugs into that infuriating smile. “You’re pretty terrifying when you talk football.”
“It’s called passion. I care about my team and my city and my family, that’s all.” The words I don’t speak land hard. And you don’t.
In the silence that follows, I almost feel bad. Even I can admit that Grayson was really listening when I talked. He wasn’t distracted or checking emails or looking back to where his laptops are waiting for him.
Grayson’s gaze shifts to the TV. “Watching anything good?”
“I was until you came along,” I lie. I jab confidently at the button to lower the TV. Except instead, I find my seat moving, in a slow, backward transition that doesn’t stop no matter how many times I jab the button again.
By the time I’m flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, a deep rumble of laughter is filling the cabin, and a moment later, Grayson leans over my chair, a hand on either armrest, and hits the correct button.
Instantly, the screen disappears and the chair starts to move back to its upright position.
Only, Grayson doesn’t step away. He looks down at the armrest, and I follow his gaze to where the cuff of his sweater is snagged on something, holding him there as the chair begins to rise.
Suddenly the space between us is shrinking when it shouldn’t be.
My senses fill with the heat of his body and the scent of his aftershave.
I was expecting him to smell expensive, like greed, but his scent is old-fashioned—warm and a little dark—like cedar and hints of tobacco and aged bourbon.
We stare at each other in growing horror.
“Can you—” I start as the chair continues its slow ascent.
He huffs. “Trying to.”
Only then does he free the caught fabric and straighten, stepping back fast and almost tripping as he sits back in his own chair. Another few seconds like that and I think my lips would’ve brushed the line of his jaw. I shut that thought down quickly and pick up my coffee, hiding my flaming cheeks.