Page 47 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Off-limits with a capital fuck no.
The nuclear option of friendship destruction would be sleeping with his little sister. I’m hoping to save our partnership, not detonate it from the inside.
Would she even desire me like that?The flirtation, the innuendos—is that merely Petra being Petra? Her approach to all men?
Obviously, you moron.She’s a bartender. She explained her “nips for tips” strategy. And here you are, another gullible fool falling for it.
Nevertheless, the idea of other men flirting with her makes me feel… tense.
Enough.Her interactions with men are none of my concern. From this moment onward, there will be no further inappropriate thoughts about Pip.
Twelve minutes later, we’re boarding my jet.
Petra stops dead at the entrance, her eyes widening as she takes in the interior. “Holy shit.”
The cabin is decorated in Sterling corporate colors—navy walls, brown leather seats with brass fixtures, cream carpeting that looks new despite routine use. The forward section holds six reclining chairs arranged in pairs, facing each other across polished walnuttables. Behind them, a curved leather sofa faces an entertainment center.
“You have a couch?” Petra points toward the back. “Wait. Is that a bedroom?”
“For longer flights.”
She peeks behind the suite partition. “Oh. My. God. This isn’t a jet. It’s a private mile high club. Now I get why you were so harsh about my bathroom. You could fit three of them in that shower. Four if you stack ’em like Tetris.”
My earlier comment stings, hearing it from her point of view. I hadn’t meant to insult her living situation, though that’s precisely what I accomplished.
After takeoff, Petra keeps adjusting her seat belt, then her collar, then picking invisible lint from her designer vest. The nervous energy radiating from her is distinctly un-Petra-like.
“Not a fan of flying?” I ask.
“What? No. I love traveling.” She forces a laugh. “Just, bracing myself for the inevitable shitshow that’s gonna go down at Casa Rich People.”
“I think it would be helpful if I were to teach you certain etiquette guidelines, to avoid any awkward situations.”
“Charm school with Professor Manners? Let me guess… First lesson is ‘How to Not Embarrass the Billionaire at a Fancy Dinner.’”
Our flight attendant Christine appears with her practiced smile. “Mr. Sterling, Miss Brinkman. I have fresh peanut butter cookies from the galley. Still warm.”
Petra perks up. “Did you say warm cookies?” She grabs one and takes a bite. “Oh, my sweet buttery lord,” she groans. “This is a cookie-gasm.Almostas good as my matcha chocolate chip.” Shewraps three more cookies in a cloth napkin and stuffs them into her pants pocket.
“You realize Casa Cashmere has a full culinary staff?” I point out.
“Who probably makes those teeny portions like at your mom’s fancy gala. I’ve seen heartier meals in a doll house.” She pats her pocket. “Trust me, backpacking through Europe teaches you a thing or two. Rule one: Always carry snacks. Rule two: Never, ever trust a jacuzzi at a hostel.”
I want to ask her everything.
Why she dropped out of college. What Europe gave her that school didn’t. What she was pursuing during those two years. How it felt to go off the grid.
I want to know it all. But my phone buzzes.
The name on the screen makes my stomach clench.
Reginald Sterling.
“Excuse me. I need to take this.”
I retreat to the rear bedroom, closing the frosted glass door. The plush executive chair sinks as I settle in at the desk, already steeling myself.
“Father,” I answer, knowing pleasantries are futile.
