Page 6 of Love Off Course

Lawton lets out a cackle. “No to either.” He leans in to whisper. “TheDamian Birch is here.”

“He has nice pink pants,” Carson offers.

“Who’s Damian Birch?”

Lawton’s eyes roll so hard I’m afraid he might lose them in that big head of his. “You’re such a fuddy duddy, CZ. Damian’s on that interior design show, but it’s for boats. Anyway, not him. His assistant. He’s dreamy.”

Carson laughs. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Oh, honey,” Lawton purrs, “I sure will.” He pats him on the head and then bounds off.

I glance out of the open cockpit into the cabin. Damian—proudly strutting around in his pink pants—fusses over his assistant. The kid is young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and looks way in over his head working fortheDamian Birch.

The old couple is sitting side by side in a pair of cream leather seats as the old man helps his wife buckle in. Lawton is now assisting a leggy woman with her luggage. My eyes, though, zero in onher.

Where everyone else is smiling and enjoying themselves, she’s glaring out the window, her pouty pink lips pressed in a firm line. She sits board straight in her seat, her legs crossed and tucked neatly under her seat as she angles herself toward the window. Everything about her is closed off to those around her. Her silky brown hair is smooth and utterly perfect. It makes me want to walk by her and run my fingers through it, messing it up.

“Just. One. Hit.” Carson playfully nudges me.

I steal one lingering glance at her before turning around to ready us for takeoff. As the engines fire to life, all irritation and anxiety fade away. In these private jets, you can feel every vibration, making your nerve endings come alive. Sure, commercial has its perks, like not having to deal with the people in the cabin, but private is my preference.

The next few minutes are ones of utter focus as Carson and I navigate the bird into the open skies. As soon as we reach our elevation and we’re cruising along at five hundred miles per hour, Carson starts humming.

Fly Like An Eagle.

Nothing like the Steve Miller Band to help me shake away my grumpy ass mood.

Soon, I join in and offer the “doo-doo-doo-doos” for him, both of us nodding our heads. Once we’re stable, he unbuckles and pats me on the shoulder before stepping out of the cockpit. His voice is friendly and chipper as he greets the passengers, tells them about our estimated travel time, and sings his usual The Beatles tune. I’m relaxed and happy again. In the sky, I’m literally on top of the world and it’s freeing.

“Do you have Hennessy?”

Her.

Her voice cuts through my haze and thumps me in the head.

“Lawton will show you the selection of on-board cocktails and drinks we offer,” Carson says. “Though I hear tequila will loosen you up if you’re tense.”

I smirk, knowing already she thinks she’s too good for a shot of tequila.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Fucking Carson.

Meddlesome bastard.

“Sheridan Reid,” she says in a regal tone that indicates we should all know who the hell she is.

“TheSheridan Reid?” Carson taunts.

I can heartheDamian Birch hissing at his assistant to hurry and Google her. I’m a little curious as well.

“That’s me,” she grumbles.

“Well, funky flyers,” Carson says, “I was going to regale you with ‘Rocket Man’ by Elton John since that’s CZ’s favorite, but we havetheSheridan Reid on our flight and you know what that means?”

“Oh God,” I mutter.

Carson laughs, overhearing me. “No, God’s busy elsewhere, buddy. More like…Oh Sherrie,” he croons the last part.

---