Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Maybe the rules are different on private jets.
Music plays softly through the cabin. A tray of snacks—fruit, crackers, and the most delicious sugar cookies I’ve ever eaten—is beside me on one of two plush sofas facing each other. A bedroom, lavatory, and a small storage compartment are through the archway on my right. On my other side is a dining area, where our sweet flight attendant, Kimbra, said a meal will be served shortly. Beyond that is a small space dubbed “the entertainment area” with oversized chairs and a large screen. It’s open to a full galley that greets visitors as they board the aircraft.
If I weren’t already bamboozled from my surprise marriage, this would render me speechless. But this isn’t the most impressive part. The wildest part of the whole experience is the understated Brewer Air logo embossed on the head rests, linens, and the side of the plane.
My. Head. Is. Spinning.
“Everything okay?” Renn asks, disrupting me from my thoughts.
The weight of the day is etched on his face. I’m certain it is on mine as well.
“Everything is the same as it was when we boarded the plane this afternoon,” I say.
He squeezes his temples. “I’m sorry I’ve been on the phone—”
“No, don’t apologize. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant …” I don’t know what I meant.
I pull my legs beneath me, and gaze past his shoulder into the clouds.
The day feels like it’s taken both the blink of an eye and a calendar year. By the time Renn dealt with his publicist, fielded a small selection of the incoming calls and texts blowing up his phone, and arranged for our travel to a place with a beach, it was after four in the afternoon. I intentionally did not check my phone, sent Ella out for travel essentials—despite Brock and Renn melting down over it after the fact—and attempted to manage the panic attack sneaking up on me.
What neither Renn nor I have done over the past almost ten hours is discuss anything relating to our newly formed union. And while I know we bought ourselves a few days to figure that out … I still want—need—a resolution. Soon.
Renn shuts off his phone and tosses it on the sofa. As it drops, so do his shoulders. “I should’ve turned that off a long time ago. I hate people.”
I grin. “No, you don’t.”
“Oh, I do. I really, really do.” He blows out a breath. “My publicist put out the statement we approved before we left Vegas.”
“Which one did we end up going with? I forgot. There were so many renditions.”
“She copied you on the final email. It basically said we are enjoying a few days away and asked the world to respect our privacy.”
“Which it won’t.”
He rolls his head around his neck. “Probably not. But I’m taking you to the one place we have a shot at it.”
“Are you going to tell me where that place might be?”
“Nope. It’s a surprise.”
His smile, boyish and proud, eases the lines around his eyes. Coupled with his messy hair and the way the collar of his shirt is crooked, Renn is adorable.
I want to prod him about our destination. I’m so curious about the Brewer Air logo. And I really want to curl up on this sofa and get some much-needed sleep, but I can’t. I can’t do any of that until we get to the bottom of this.
“I have a call with the Royals general manager tomorrow,” he says, falling back against the sofa.
“What are you going to tell them?”
He shrugs. “That’s the multimillion-dollar question.”
Yes, it is … “I think now is as good a time as any to talk this out. Don’t you think?”
“We’re going to be on this plane for a while, so we might as well.”
We are? “Define a while.”
He smiles. “A while.”
I roll my eyes.
“So let’s do this. Let’s get to the bottom of it,” he says. “Where is your head right now?”
I fiddle with the hem of my sweatshirt. “I’m waffling between what’s best for you, what’s best for me, and what’s best for us.” My eyes lift to his. “Where is your head right now?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “I think the best thing for us is to stay married.”
My head falls into my hands. Of course, you do.
“Just think about it,” he says, leaning forward. His voice is calm and careful. “It puts out the fire. No one can say shit if they really think we’re married.”
“No offense, but I don’t really want to be married to you.”
He gasps. “And why not?”
I stare at him. I know he’s trying to take the edge off the situation—to keep things light and fun. And I appreciate that … but it doesn’t help.
“Answer that, please,” he says. “I’m a catch.”
“Because.” I stand and pace the small area as he watches from his seat. “This is just so … wrong. I don’t even remember marrying you.”