Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
I must nod off because the next thing I know, I startle awake and have no idea where I am. Dazed, I look around the lounge to see if anyone has noticed, hoping I didn’t snore or snort or talk in my sleep.
That’s when I see him.
In a lounge full of passengers waiting for their flights, he stands out.
He’s sitting two chairs away from me, looking at something on his phone. Dressed in a suit that had to be custom-made to his muscular frame, I notice how big his hands are as he types a message on his phone. His hair is short, his jaw square and strong. Think Henry Cavill in a suit times a thousand. He looks up from his phone, and I am greeted by a pair of the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, making them almost appear black. Not to mention the longest lashes.
He’s so stunning to look at, my mouth actually drops open.
I quickly look away, but not before he catches me, and I see amusement tug at the corners of those perfect lips. Cheeks flaming, I bring my knees to my chest and will myself not to look in his direction. Stupid, handsome man. He’s probably used to women falling all over themselves around him.
My phone pings with a text message from Chloe:
Henry says to tell you to find some NYC cock. I agree. Don’t come home until you are walking side to side from all the dick.
I let out a too-loud chuckle—embarrassed, my eyes automatically flit to Mr. Handsome to see if he heard, and he is staring… Right. At. Me.
He tilts his head slightly, lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow, and gives me a look that sends fireworks tearing toward my nether regions. I’m exhausted but not too exhausted for my cheeks to flush deeper and for my body to stir.
Get it together, Brooke. You were only dumped yesterday.
My phone pings again. This time it’s Elsa.
Text me once you get there.
She’s definitely the mother hen of our little family.
I will. And don’t worry about me. I’m doing just fine.
I’m lounging in first class, and the view isn’t anything to complain about.
But when I look up again, Mr. Handsome is gone.
7
BROOKE
First class is incredible. The seats are spacious and comfortable, and even if I were seven feet tall, there’d still be enough legroom.
I smile to myself, feeling good and feeling strong about what I am doing. Which is a relief because a few minutes ago, I let the last twenty-four hours seep in, and the sudden need to cry was almost overwhelming. I was worried my walls were crumbling and I was going to start falling apart. I was beginning to wonder if my strength was only from shock, and now the shock was subsiding, and I was going to fall into a big heap.
But that’s not going to happen. No one falls apart in first class, I decide.
First class fills up quickly, and I start to wonder if the seat next to me is going to remain empty. But then, a man in his forties or fifties sits down beside me. He gives me a look like I’m greatly inconveniencing him by sitting in the seat next to him.
I give him a polite smile. But he offers me nothing but an arrogant glance down his nose at me.
“The name is Alastair Gold. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
I haven’t. But I don’t get a chance to tell him that because he keeps talking.
“Let’s get a few housekeeping rules out of the way before takeoff.”
Housekeeping rules?
“I’m famous and wealthy and a big deal. But I don’t waste time with small talk or idle chatter, so I would very much prefer it if you don’t talk to me at all during this flight.”
Like I would want to.
He continues. “I don’t know you, and I don’t want to, so don’t waste my time or your time trying. I’ve got better things to do than sit here and make small talk with a stranger I’ll hopefully never see again.”
The feeling is mutual, buddy.
“So please do us both a favor and keep your mouth closed during the flight and—"
“Excuse me, sir,” the flight attendant interrupts him.
Which is just as well because I’m two seconds away from telling this jerk to go to hell.
“I’m sorry, but I am going to have to ask you to move seats,” the flight attendant says.
Inwardly, I do a double fist pump. Thank you, God.
The man looks at the flight attendant like she’s just told him the Earth is flat. “What are you talking about?”
I have a feeling he isn’t going to make this easy on her.
“I’m afraid there has been a mix-up,” she explains. “I need you to vacate this seat.”
“What kind of mix-up?”
“This seat has been double booked. But 4A is free.”
“Good, then the other passenger can sit there,” he says.