Page 59 of Gross Misconduct

When people lose a sense, their other senses are heightened. Did losing half his eyesight make Griffin able to read my thoughts? I’m quickly learning it doesn’t pay to lie to Griffin. He makes me want to spill the beans.

“I really appreciate you helping me get this second interview. Look, this isn’t my dream job, but I don’t know what is. It was supposed to be hockey. I’m grasping at straws here. I just want to make enough money to pay my bills and fix my car, then I can take it from there. I promise if I get this job, I won’t fuck it up and make you look bad.”

I reach for his hand, his calloused fingers sending a charge up my arm. Griffin keeps studying me, but something behind his eye softens, like whatever stoic grip he has on himself loosens a tad.

“You’re a fan of Penelope Towne?” He scratches at his beard. “You want to go on her plane?”

20

GRIFFIN

I’ve worked on tons of private planes. The wow factor wears off quickly once you realize it’s the same seats you find on a commercial plane. Sometimes, like in Penelope Towne’s plane, there’s even a couch. But the couch isn’t that comfortable. It’s only cool because it’s on a plane. The only real perks are not dealing with annoying passengers and having your own bathroom.

Jack’s mouth is practically on the plush pink carpet.

“Ho-ly shit.” He stumbles around as he takes it all in. The plane is as pink on the inside as the outside, down to the walls. Pink leopard print pillows are splayed across the couch.

Jack opens a fridge up front and snaps a picture.

“Don’t post any of this.” I don’t want to lose my job.

“I’m not. This is for my own private memories.” He picks up a can of La Croix. “Hey, we both like peach-pear!”

I motion for him to put it back. “Since you’re a fan, I thought you’d want to take a look.”

Jack sinks into one of the seats. He lets out a big aahhhh, even though it’s likely not much more comfortable than a regular airplane seat.

“This is amazing.” He pulls an eye mask from the pocket on the side. In big letters, AT is spelled out. “This is Alberta Towne’s face mask! She’s Penelope’s overbearing momager.”

“Weren’t you on private planes when you were in the NHL?” I ask. It’s very cute how impressed he is by all of this; I expected him to be a bit more jaded. From what I’ve read, NHL charter planes are very swanky.

“We all got first-class style seats. But there weren’t couches like this.” Jack collapses across the sofa as if lounging by the TV, his strong body taking up all the space. “We had to wear a suit jacket and dress pants whenever we flew. It’s in our contract. And that shit isn’t comfortable to fly in.”

Jack adjusts the suit he’s wearing, the same one as last time, still a size too small for him. The few times I’ve worn suits, I’ve ripped them off as soon as I could.

“Don’t get me wrong. It is nice. Really nice,” he continues. “But pretty soon…”

“The magic wears off?” I ask.

“Yeah. You’re still stuck on a plane for a few hours.”

I sit in the momager’s seat. It’s best that I don’t sit on a couch with him. I don’t trust myself to play nice. Not when I’ve been daydreaming about tearing his suit off since the second he strolled into the hangar.

I check my watch. “When’s your interview?”

He checks his phone. “Like ten minutes.”

“It’ll take you two minutes or so to get to Alan’s office.”

“Perfect. Setting timer for eight minutes.” Jack pushes the requisite buttons on his phone.

Great. I can withstand temptation for eight more minutes. Barely. Jack’s ass looks fucking delicious in those pants.I can do it.

I don’t know why I haven’t gotten Jack out of my system yet. I can’t dwell on that currently.

“Can I see the cockpit?” Just hearing the wordcockescape his lips makes my pants tighten. The horny part of me wonders if he emphasized that syllable extra hard.

Less than eight minutes. Less than eight minutes.

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