We’d pulled up to the private terminal.
Sutton blinked at the window. “Wait—this isn’t the airport.”
“It is.”
Her eyes went wide. “Jameson…is that a private jet?”
I couldn’t hold back the grin. “You didn’t think we were flying commercial, did you?”
She stared at me. “I absolutely did. Who has a private jet?”
“Technically, I charter it.”
“Oh, well—technically.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’m going on a private jet.”
The car stopped. The driver opened her door. Sutton stepped out slowly, staring at the Gulfstream like it was a mirage. I followed, watching the wonder in her face, the way excitement lit her up from the inside.
“This is real?” she asked.
“This is real.”
“Wait. I have to text Danika—she’s never going to believe this.”
“You can text from the plane.”
“It has Wi-Fi?”
“Sutton, it’s a private jet. It has everything.”
She laughed, shaking her head, and followed me up the stairs. The attendant greeted us, and Sutton’s expression turned pure awe. I watched her walk ahead, her red hair catching the light, and fought the urge to rest my hand on her lower back.
Professional. Stay professional.
She turned in a slow circle once inside. “There areactualseats.”
“They recline,” I said. “All the way.”
“Of course they do.” She slid into one, fingertips tracing the armrest. “I feel like I should take a picture.”
“Take it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She snapped a selfie, then looked at me. “Do you want to be in it?”
No. I hated cameras. But she was looking at me like it mattered.
“Sure.”
She moved beside me, close enough for her perfume to hit again. “Smile.”
I didn’t—until she leaned in, shoulder brushing mine. Then I did.
She grinned at the screen. “Perfect. Danika and Gabriella are going to freak out.”
The attendant returned for the briefing. Sutton listened, rapt. I watched her, fully aware I was in trouble. This wasn’t just attraction. This was dangerous.
