Chapter 5
sofía
“Can you bend the rules?”
The airline worker behind the check-in counter offers a sympathetic but firm look. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the bag is ten pounds overweight. You’ll have to pay the fee or remove some items and put them into a carry-on.”
Tears prick the back of my eyes, and I clench my jaw to prevent a snarky response from tumbling out. And as if this situation weren’t frustrating enough, the tag of my blazer scratches against my neck.
Each item in my bag was meticulously considered, folded, and made to fit within the small confines. It’s not as simple as “remove some items.” What does she expect me to do? Throw them in the trash? Uber home, drop them off, and then make it back to LAX for my flight?
There’s only one unreasonable person in this airport right now, and it’s the woman in front of me.
I want to unravel the stupid scarf around her neck just to spite her.
“Please,” I whisper, not above begging.
She doesn’t budge, so I collect my luggage from the scale and do the airport walk of shame to the corner of the lobby, using the potted plant as a shield so other travelers don’t witness my impending conniption.
Deep breaths rattle my lungs, and I force my heartbeat to calm before Jett, Molly, and Doug arrive. Crying in the airport is not the way to start a trip or how I want to present myself. I am a professional, reliable employee, not a blubbering mess of a woman.
I chant the declaration under my breath. After ten times without success of the words sticking, I give up.
My phone chimes, and against my better judgment, I answer. No “Hi, Sofía” or “How are you?” or any socially acceptable greeting. My sister leaps into her requests and demands.
“Did you have time to read my essay?” Luisa asks. “It’s due in three days.”
“Lu, I can’t do this right now.”
I know I’m behind on their essays—I know because our mother called to remind me.
But I’ve had the trip to plan and venues to find for the premiere of the first episode.
Add in packing, helping Dad figure out tax write-offs, and listening to Vivian practice her proposal speech to her girlfriend, I simply haven’t had the time.
“Have you looked at mine?” Maria asks. “I’m not sure if my personal anecdote is competitive enough.”
Fuck.
“I’ll take a look at them on the plane.”
“Sofía,” a cheery voice yells out from behind me. My muscles stiffen.
“Mom says Abuelo isn’t happy with Brookwood because the food is bland,” Luisa says. “She wants to know if you can call and ask about changing his menu.”
“And we need to get something for Mom,” Maria calls out. “Her birthday is coming up.”
Each task adds to the anxiety stewing in my stomach until I’m a pressure cooker ready to explode. “I’ve got to go. I’ll handle it and text you when I land.”
Jamming my thumb against the button, I hang up and swipe the tears cooling against my cheeks in time for Jett to appear. His luggage bangs to the ground before he sweeps me into a swift hug. My nervous system calms a fraction in the tight embrace, and I’m no longer one second away from tears.
I’m a solid three seconds away now.
“What are you wearing?”
Why is he always asking that? Do I look bad?
This is a casual travel outfit. Loose blue jeans, an expensive but comfortable t-shirt, navy blazer, and tennis shoes that are easy to slip off in security, while still stating “I am a professional woman on a work trip.”
“What are you wearing?” I counter, not thrilled he’s judging my outfit selection, given his own.
Jett’s taken a comfortable approach, wearing a navy sweatshirt and joggers, the color illuminating the humor swirling in his gaze. The backwards baseball cap is the cherry on the cake, the blue color faded and the edges of the brim frayed with age.
“It’s my airport outfit,” he boasts, spinning in a circle. “Cozy. Loose. Lots of pockets to hold my things. Why are you wearing something so…uncomfortable?”
“This is professional.”
His face slackens, and then his head tips back as he releases a roar of laughter. My cheeks heat the more focus we draw from passersby. I shift on my feet, tugging at my collar.
“Sofía,” he says once he’s calm, “it’s a fourteen-hour flight.” Whatever fight he reads on my face causes him to course correct, but not in my favor. “I’m the boss, and I officially declare no more business clothing.”
A stare down ensues, and to my surprise, he holds his ground, hands on his hips. My resolve wavers when I shift and the tag digs into my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
Fine, so it’s not comfortable, but I’m trying to prove to him I’m worth the salary he’s paying me. It’s obvious he realizes he’s winning, because his face splits into a giant grin and he pumps his fist in the air.
“That’s all I packed.” I sigh, dropping to the ground to work out the issue with my luggage. “And my bag is overweight.”
Jett crouches beside me as I examine my luggage. I unzip the side with items that won’t destroy me to get rid of, and rifle through my packing cubes.
“Oh, wow,” he whispers, poking the one that holds my pencil skirts. “We’re going to need to go shopping when we get to Sydney.”
My head snaps to him. “What? Why?”
“I never want to see you in any of this again. These outfits impact your work.”
“My work?”
“Yes. And since I’m the boss—”
“As you’ve reminded me,” I grumble, but he barrels onward.
“You won’t need them as long as you work with me,” he continues. “I won’t think less of you because you choose to wear clothing you’re comfortable in.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that, though he calls himself “the boss,” he always says he works with people instead of saying people work for him. It’s a minuscule difference in word choice but done so with intent.
“Got it?” He bumps my shoulder, and I nod. “Ditch your fancy clothes and put something in your carry-on to wear on the plane.”
I shove the matching baby-pink loungewear into my bag, and Jett lets himself loose, digging through my belongings.
Thank you, Charlie, for your sage wisdom of not packing your vibrator.
At first, I thought she was crazy for offering the advice, but as Jett rakes through my clothing, she was thinking ten steps ahead of me.
“This can go,” he says, tossing my blazers and matching slacks over his shoulder and hitting me square in the chest. “And everything in this little container thing.”
He drops the packing cube that holds my skirts and blouses beside me.
Seventy percent of the clothing I packed for the trip lies spread out in the middle of the airport for everyone to see.
I dip my chin to hide the embarrassment flooding my cheeks, but Jett is undeterred and lifts another cube, this one without mesh.
“What’s in this? And can it go?”
The blood drains from my face. “That’s my underwear.”
A wave of pink tinges the apples of his cheeks, and he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Right. Better keep those.”
My undergarments are set to the side before he works through my bag of toiletries. I hold my breath, anticipating the comment about overpacking or pointed questions on why I need all the skincare items.
It never comes.
There’s no judgment as Jett reconfigures my bag, only intense focus while he switches the direction of items so they fit properly.
I’ve been told I’m high maintenance, and at first, I didn’t realize it was a subtle jab Tommy would make when I was particular about something or steadfast in my opinion.
It was acceptable when my hair was done and I wore fancy lingerie, but when it meant I took longer to get ready in the morning and liked things done a certain way, then it was a detriment to my personality.
I crouch down beside him to help rearrange my shoes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
This is not a great start to our trip, especially when it’s my job to have things handled. “We don’t apologize for things like this,” he states, “but you do have some explaining to do.” My red face mask appears in his grip. “What is this? Some sort of torture device?”
“It’s my red-light mask.” I snatch it from him as his lips tremble. “It’s part of my night routine. It helps to prevent aging.”
Jett laughs. “It’s doing its job well, then. Maybe I should give it a shot. It might make me as pretty as you are.”
A blush creeps up my neck, and when he takes the mask and slips it over his face, I let him, still reeling from the subtle, genuine compliment. He’s generous with them, and it does weird things to my nervous system.
I’m not sure what I’m doing to receive them.
Curious passersby gawk—which he ignores—as he slips my hiking boots onto his hands. “I. Am. Robot,” he says, jerking the shoes around. “Robot. Hate. Blazers.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Blazers suck.” Despite the humiliation, I fight my grin and shove his arm. “But I can’t throw them away.”
Hundreds of dollars of clothing sit in a pile, and though Jett is paying me far more than I used to make, I can’t morally throw away perfectly good clothing. Donate them, maybe. But I am not adding to the clothing waste epidemic.
He drags his duffel bag over. “Easy peasy. Put it in my bag. We can ship it all back when we get to Sydney.”
“Won’t your bag be overweight then?”
The cost to ship from Australia back to Los Angeles has to be astronomical.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But I’ll pay the fee.”
“If you’re going to pay the fee anyway, why don’t we keep them in my bag?”
Tasting the scheming in the air, I narrow my gaze. He smiles, coy but cunning.
“Because if you keep them, you won’t ship them back. And if you wear those, you can’t wear this.”
With a shit-eating grin, he reveals two shirts from his backpack and hands me one with a small brown tag with my name on it. I recognize the handwriting immediately.
“What did she send you?”
I hold the fabric like it’s a bomb. If Charlie sent him something, it means Amy was also in on it, and Mateo, too. Those three together are a deadly combination, especially if there’s wine involved.
“I don’t know, sugar tits, why don’t you take a look?”
An odd choking sound escapes me.
There’s no fucking way.