Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
What kind of man did I live with?
“Coked up?” He jerked his eyes away from the cloudy skies. “Cuddlebug, that’s gluten-free flour. I take it everywhere I go because restaurants are shit about celiacs.”
Red-hot heat shotgunned to my cheeks. I did know that. Of course, I knew that. I remembered it from way back. The chefs at the lake house would make meals in small batches, just for him.
“Sorry.” I released a small breath – and with it, the tiniest fraction of my anger. “But I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.” He shrugged, flicking another lever. “Not that you have any reason to be. I saved you from those people.”
“Those people? I adore my friends.”
“You’ve only just technically met them,” he pointed out. “And you have to agree Dallas is a lot.”
“A lot of what?”
“Literally everything.”
“Agree to disagree. I love her personality.”
“Which one? She has many.” He adjusted the throttle and trim, maintaining a steady cruise speed. “I have no idea how Romeo manages to keep his sanity. Although, judging by his behavior the second his wife enters a room, I’m pretty sure he is no longer in possession of it.”
Another headache ripped through my skull. I held my temples with both hands and squeezed hard, as if my head would separate from my neck if I didn’t hold it down. A moan ripped out of me.
I swayed in my spot behind his seat. “I need to sit down.”
He stood up and shepherded me to the co-pilot seat. “Come next to me.”
I held up a hand, knowing he’d turn this on the girls. “I’ll be fine. It’ll pass soon.”
Had I not been fighting a 9.5 earthquake in my skull, I would probably be excited about being in a cockpit for the first time. Instead, a throaty groan grated past my lips.
“See, this is what I meant.” Oliver’s teeth slammed together. “Fucking Dallas. Private jets fly higher than commercial airlines. The altitude is terrible for your headaches. Here, I brought you Advil.” He loosened a couple of green gel pills from his pocket and passed them to me with some water.
I knocked them back, wincing. “Why do private planes do that?”
“Thinner air. Less congestion. Fuel efficiency.” He flicked on the autopilot and gave me his full attention, rubbing my back in small circles. “The higher you fly, the less fuel you burn. And since private jets are lighter than commercial planes, we have a better thrust-to-weight ratio.”
“That’s not common knowledge.”
“No, Dallas wouldn’t know that. She’s as knowledgeable as a fucking toddler, just not half as cute.”
“You’re being incredibly rude right now.”
“She was supposed to keep you safe.” If this were a cartoon, there’d be steam billowing from his ears. “She broke her promise to me. I have no respect for people who don’t keep their promis—”
The rest of the sentence perished in his throat. I wanted to ask him what he meant, but I couldn’t focus on anything.
“My head is killing me.” I whimpered in the back of my throat. “I hope there won’t be turbulence.”
“Fat chance. Very little rain and snow reach 45,000 ft. You’re in for a smooth ride.” He moved his tongue inside his mouth. “There’s a sexual innuendo there, by the way.”
“Shut up, Ollie. I’m still mad at you.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugged, pausing again. “Just to be clear … are you mad at me because I showed up at your little girls tour or because we own a private jet?”
Valid question.
To be honest, his surprise arrival hadn’t pissed me off that much. It was kind of romantic, in an enough-red-flags-to-be-mistaken-for-a-carnival kind of way.
I could see the worry oozing through his deep furrows when I’d found him pacing outside my dorm room. One arm crossed, the other fist tucked beneath his chin, and the heavy thumps of his feet against the laminate wood. He could be the posterchild for nicotine withdrawal.
It helped that he was right.
I shouldn’t have taken a spontaneous trip across the country. Doctor Cohen hadn’t cleared any travel. In fact, he’d insisted I get plenty of rest at home.
“I guess about the private jet,” I mumbled, though that didn’t sound right either.
That underlying fury continued to simmer in my blood ever since I’d woken from the coma. It would take the slightest spark to bring it to a boil. Somewhere deep within its folds, my brain knew I was livid at my fiancé.
I massaged my temples, forcing away the uncertainty before I lost my head to the throbbing. “How often do you fly this thing?”
Knowing we owned a private jet thrilled and nauseated me in equal parts. I didn’t fear flying, didn’t feel that queasy churn in my stomach at takeoff earlier, and yet … It didn’t sit right with me. I wondered why.
“More often than not.” Ollie flipped off the autopilot, returning his hands to the yoke. “I try to get ten hours a week, at least. It calms me down. Keeps me fresh.”