Page 2 of Love Off Course

His words poke at my nerves. Sure, Daddy is wealthy and successful, but I’m no freeloader. I’m an asset to RT Corp. I’m the Reid who can get the hard deals done. I matter.

Ignoring him, I sip my cappuccino. The sprinkle of cinnamon I added warms me. When you have everything, sometimes it’s the little things that make you happy. Like a dash of spice or removing the damn hair from your skirt.

“Doris,” an old man says. “This way, Doris.”

Once again, my stare drifts to another man joining us in the lounge. The man has to be older than dirt. Hair white as snow, but he seems otherwise fit. He’s wearing a velvet burgundy tracksuit with “DD” embroidered on his chest.

“I’m right behind you, Dale. Keep your underwear on.”

Mr. Pink Pants curls his lip up. “Gross,” he mouths to me before shouting past the old couple. “Kyle! You walk like a turtle!”

Kyle—poor kid—was caught behind the couple and is loaded down with two giant rolling suitcases, about seven Louis Vuitton bags, and is seconds from crying based on his trembling bottom lip and red face.

“Dale,” Doris says, boldly staring at Pink Pants. “Would you look at this fruit?”

Pink Pants gapes at her, hurt flashing in his big green eyes. Before he can open his mouth to respond, Dale apologizes loudly.

“Doris here has lost her mind. Right, dear?”

“I just don’t know why Henry insists on dressing up in my clothes. They’re expensive,” Doris explains, which doesn’t explain anything.

Yep, definitely getting a headache.

“Damian,” Pink Pants says. “My name is Damian. Not”—he waves a hand in the air as though he’s disgusted—“Henry. I’mtheDamian Birch.”

The old couple just blinks at him.

“TheDamian,” he tries again. “Damian’s Dreamboats?”

“Is that a porno?” Dale asks, cocking his fuzzy white head to the side.

Damian blanches. “W-What? No. Ew. Gross, Gramps. I’m a designer. Yachts.Hello. Tell them, Kyle,” he whines, once again stomping his feet.

Kyle—bless him—stutters, unable to formulate a response, as his face burns even redder.

“Henry’s wearing my shoes,” Doris scoffs. “Those were expensive, boy.”

Damian shoots me an exasperated look. I roll my eyes. He’s on his own. As soon as we get on that plane, I’m going to put my earplugs in and sleep the entire flight to Costa Rica.

“Damian,” a thickly accented woman croons, rushing over to us. “I cannot believe my luck to share a flight with such a star!”

“Finally!” Damian cries out before preening for our newest arrival. “Would you like me to sign your—ohmygod!” Damian bounces on his sparkly heels. “Estefania Villegas!”

Shoot me now.

The woman who is every bit of six feet tall with legs practically as long as I am beams at our gathering crowd. She’s beautiful. Shapely, sultry, sexy. Everything I’m not.

“My friends,” Damian explains to us, his smile wide. “This is Costa Rica’s very own claim to fame! She’s not just a model, but she has her own hit albums in her country!”

Estefania tosses back her golden-brown hair over her shoulder and purses her full lips out as though she’s posing for the freaking paparazzi. I need a drink. Or ten.

I should have stayed in the limo.

Nathaniel would have driven me onto the tarmac when the plane was ready and I could have avoided all this. But I was eager to be alone—to formulate a plan on making David finally take the leap for me.

As the group chatters, I stand and grip the handle of my titanium Rimowa North America spinner luggage and walk away from the others to find some semblance of peace. I’m waiting by the empty desk when I hear someone whistling.

Here Comes the Sun.

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