Page 90 of Pandora's Pleasure
Meaning: Fix this fucking mess.
He’d ordered us to leave Washington D. C. for the weekend—after also delivering the devastating news that the construction on Fairfield was indefinitely stalled…again.
I leaned back against the headrest, reassuring myself that once I returned on Monday, I’d be back at it, right in the center of the fight. Nothing would derail my endeavor. I’d make my social outreach program my life’s work and not just because of how it looked to voters. The fact it was my dad stifling my efforts was heartbreaking.
Escaping this city, even if it was only for a little while, wasn’t such a bad idea.
We were traveling in style on Dad’s Boeing Dreamliner, usually reserved for the campaign trail. It was a commercial jet big enough to accommodate his entire team and anyone else wanting to hitch a ride to those designated states where he needed to nab more votes.
I glanced at my Rolex, my impatience rising.
Where the hell was Pandora?
We’d driven here together, though admittedly in silence. She was meant to be right behind me. I’d gone on ahead so I could chat with Andrew Holt, the co-pilot. We’d even managed a pre-flight check while waiting for Her Highness to board.
Bardot finally appeared in the cabin looking as irritatingly gorgeous as ever as she brushed blonde locks out of her face. Her cream pantsuit and jacket had been designed for an older woman, but she wore it well. A pair of shades rested on top of her head—she was ready for the sun.
She looked around. “Just us?”
“Obviously.”
“Where would you like me to sit?”
“On the floor. Where you belong.”
“Let’s keep it to ourselves that we’re the only passengers. Carbon footprints and all that.”
My jaw flexed. “When the plane lands in Florida, it will pick up a hundred Gulf War veterans and bring them to D.C. They will then be provided with a tour of the White House.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“Why do you suddenly care about the environment, Bardot?” I said tersely. “Usually you only care about yourself.”
She plopped down beside me. “My chat with Theo was enlightening.”
I glared at her, and then softened my expression as Becca our flight attendant brought us both tall-stemmed glasses of white wine.
“Drinking so soon?” Pandora chastised me.
“Got to drown my sorrows somehow,” I mumbled, reaching for the glasses on the tray, and handing one to Pandora. “Thank you, Becca.” I gave her a grateful smile.
She headed back up the aisle.
I set my wine on the tray table next to me and pushed to my feet. “Excuse me.”
Pandora looked panicked. “You better be staying on this plane.”
“Where else would I be going?”
“I don’t know. You seem extra pissed off today, that’s all.”
“This is what you get when you slap a man in front of the world. At the Vice President’s residence, no less.”
“Speaking of Vice President Palmer,” she continued brightly, “we were having a lovely conversation before it was interrupted. He was telling me how much he’d enjoyed reading my opinion piece in theWashington Post—”
“You wrote an opinion piece?”
“Yes, please follow along.”
