CHAPTER 2
Summer
I hate flying. What’s the purpose of defying gravity when there’s perfectly good ground wrapped around the planet like a snuggly blanket? Especially since some of that ground is covered in grass, trees, mountains, lakes, and rivers.
We humans have options. We can walk, run, ride, swim—even snowboard if the urge to do something truly stupid strikes—and it’s all good. So there’s absolutely no sane reason for anyone to fly.
Yet here I am, up in the air and concluding that my plan isn’t working all that great.
It sounded simple enough when I came up with it.
I’d stow away in Declan’s jet. The jet would take off.
I’d walk up the aisle to the cockpit where I’d announce to him that I was hijacking the plane and forcing him to turn around and land in Las Vegas so that we could prevent a disaster from happening.
Evander and Phoebe can’t be allowed to elope.
But when the jet leveled off in the air and I tried to walk up the aisle, a wave of nausea and dizziness slammed into me. I figured it would go away if I lay down for a moment, so I pulled out the sleeper sofa in the back.
No bueno.
And now we’ve been flying for well over a half hour. I think I see the ocean down there, but it makes me even sicker to look. I can’t hold it any longer. The only bathroom is near the cockpit and that’s where I’m headed, no matter if I have to crawl.
It’s all my fault. I ate a leftover Philly cheesesteak on my drive to the airport, and the thing is hankering for revenge.
I can’t believe I was forced to get in this tin can in the first place! But somebody has to take care of business. Declan is perfectly capable of handling this alone, of course, but he isn’t doing it.
He’s the kind of guy who gets easily distracted and forgets basic things, like how his brother Evander and our neighbor Phoebe—the sweetest and kindest woman any of us have ever known—simply cannot get married without us!
Somebody’s got to man up in this scenario. That woman is me.
Declan and I both know what Evander’s up to. We stood right next to him when he said that elopements have become so popular because of nosy families. And he said this at Finn and Emma’s wedding while staring at Phoebe in a red velvet, floor-length gown with a slit all the way up to her thigh.
Lordy.
Men.
So, of course they’re eloping! Of course that’s why they’re nowhere to be found on New Year’s Eve! They went to Vegas to elope!
Declan is a MacLaine, through and through. And if I’ve learned anything in all my years working with the MacLaines of Yosemite Ranch, it’s this: family always comes first. No MacLaine would ever be allowed to get married without an audience.
And so that’s why I find myself standing in the middle of the aisle watching Declan feel up some girl in a miniskirt while she yanks his pants down to his knees.
Typical Declan. Focused on getting his rocks off instead of...
Judgement will have to wait.
“I’m going to hurl!” I yell.
Declan recovers from the shock of seeing me and nearly falls on his face as he moves in my direction. He points over his shoulder and barks orders. “Lavatory! Summer, do not vomit in my beautiful jet. Do you hear me? You are not going to—oh shit.”
I’m a split second from freeing the cheesesteak.
I’ll never make it past Billie Eyelash over there to reach the bathroom.
I press my hand hard against my mouth, willing myself not to throw up, while Declan kicks off his pants and grabs me.
He lifts me up into his arms, spins around, barks for his girlfriend to move aside, and opens the lavatory door. I hear the clank of a toilet seat.
“There,” Declan says, setting me down. “Throw up there. Nowhere else.”
I grab the sides of the toilet and scream, “Eat a bag of dicks, Declan! You could be a little more—”
And then I puke. Up goes the Philly cheesesteak and down goes my face near the toilet water.
I mostly hit my target, though there is a bit of splashing that makes it to Declan’s hipster high-tops.
I feel bad, but the guilt passes as soon as I twist my face around and get a load of his reaction. He’s really pissed off at me, not at all concerned about my welfare. He’s only concerned about himself.
“You threw up on me.”
I moan, waiting a moment to see if I’m going to do it again. I don’t. In fact, I feel much better already. I flush and stand up. “Holy crap. I feel a million times better. I almost don’t hate flying now.”
“You puked on me, Summer,” Declan whispers. He grabs a thick paper towel, wets it, and leans down to wipe off the tops of his shoes. Then he straightens, staring into the mirror as he gets a fresh towel, dampens it, and starts dabbing at his black T-shirt.
“It’s just your shoes and shirt,” I say, catching his eyes in the mirror. I grab my own towel, wet it, and wipe off my face. I hone in on the sink, pushing him aside with my hip so that I can rinse out my mouth. When I straighten, he’s still staring at me in the mirror.
“That shirt’s too tight, anyway, Declan. You look like you’re about to pull an Incredible Hulk.”
That’s no lie, either. It’s so close-fitting that I can see every bulky curve and edge of his wide chest and even the outline of his washboard abs.
The man’s got a lot of individual muscles in his pack.
I’ve seen a total of eight, because I’ve seen him damn near naked on more than one occasion.
Working. Riding. Swimming in one of the ranch’s two lakes or soaking in its hot springs.
But I refuse to look at his boxer briefs. I won’t even think about them. Or how tight they are. Or what I saw when he spun around in surprise a moment ago. I won’t go there.
I just can’t.
Declan rounds on me and lowers his face so that it’s no more than two inches from mine. In the lavatory light, his eyes look otherworldly, like the violet of deep space. “It’s not tight,” he whispers. “It’s fitted. I happen to like the way it looks. At least I did, before you upchucked on it.”
I shrug and squeeze past him so that I can stand in the aisle again and catch my breath. It was too close in there with Declan and his anger, his eyes, his muscles, and the boxer briefs that look like they were spray-painted over his bulging package.
He’s right behind me. “Tell me what you’re doing in my jet, Summer.”
“We’re going to stop the wedding.”
He shuts his eyes and slowly shakes his head. “Do you not see that I am on a damned date?”
“Is that why you’re not wearing any pants?”
He opens his eyes. I can see that he’s trying not to smile. And failing. And I’m failing too.
This is the frustrating thing about Declan.
He’s permanently sixteen years old, and we’ve been in the friend zone for way over a decade now.
No wiggle room for anything more and no benefits of any kind.
I’ve worked for his family since I was a teenager.
All that said, I can’t deny that he’s hotter than high noon in Death Valley.
No, that’s not exactly right. I can deny it and I do, all day long, and to anyone who even makes the slightest snarky comment about Declan and me. But I can’t lie to myself, no matter how hard I try.
We’ve always had this thing—with a glance, we know what the other is thinking. We can crack each other up without a word. He’s my best friend. I like him. I love him. Like a brother or a cousin or… okay, that’s total bullshit and I know it.
But whatever he is to me and however I feel about him, it doesn’t matter, because he’s off-limits.
“Many men don’t wear pants on dates,” Declan says, one corner of his mouth hitching up. “You should try it sometime, Summer.”
Just then, his date du jour steps from the cockpit where she’s been hiding.
I generally try not to judge people by their exteriors, but she’s an interesting choice, even for Declan.
She’s dressed like a Coachella reject. Enormous knockers are on full display in her transparent top and push-up bra.
Frayed denim miniskirt. Four-inch heels.
Fake extensions everywhere—lashes, nails, and hair.
And despite all that, she’s actually very pretty.
Hate her already.
“I’m confused,” the date says. “Are we having a party?”
Oh, wow. She sounds like a cat in heat. Declan narrows his eyes at me in warning. I know that look. It’s a warning backed by a legitimate threat. He ain’t messing around. I decide to keep my commentary to myself.
“We’re not having a party,” Declan tells her, his voice kind. “Summer was just leaving.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Really? Where exactly am I leaving to? We’re flying over the ocean. Are you going to throw me out the back door?”
“I don’t have a back door,” Declan says. “I’ll use the front.”
“Nice to meet you, Summer,” his date says. “I’m Bryttni, spelled with a Y, two Ts, and an I.”
Aside from the voice and the skanky clothes, she seems lovely. And she has excellent manners. Now I feel guilty. I should learn to be nicer.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say. “I’m Summer. With a U, two Ms, and an E.”
And then it dawns on me… I look up at Declan. “Who the hell’s flying the plane?”
“He is,” Br-Y-TT-n-I says. “He can fly with his mind.”
That’s it. I can’t help myself. I double over with laughter. I’m laughing so hard I’m worried I’ll hurl again.