The plane lurches violently, and a banshee-like scream tears from my throat before I can stop it. My chest heaves, my fingers dig into the armrests, and when I dare to glance up, I find Damian and Bridger both staring at me. Bridger nudges Damian, silently telling him to sit beside me.
Damian mutters something under his breath and pointedly turns away.
It’s a gut punch of rejection. Sudden and unexpected. A sharp, humiliating sting that explodes behind my eyes. I don’t even know why it hurts, but it does. I blink hard, fighting back tears.Why am I always attracted to the wrong kind of guys?
Bridger sighs, unbuckling his seatbelt, then clambers across the tiny walkway with an ease that makes my eyes sting more. He drops into the seat beside me, his lips curving in a smirk. “Having fun yet?”
I glare at him, my voice clipped and unsteady. “I feel like a sock in a washing machine.”
He chuckles, completely unbothered by the chaos rattling around us. “It’ll even out in a few minutes,” he says, reaching over to place a steadying hand on my trembling arm.
Whoa. That’s… unexpected.
My gaze drops to his hand, and I mentally brace myself for the worst. For another Joel, with a loaded gun and vileintentions. But this Bridger guy doesn’t have a loaded gun against my face, so if he touches me the wrong way, I’ll rip his eyeballs right out of their sockets.
"You're shaking," Bridger observes, his gaze steady, concern flickering behind his eyes. "Are you really that scared of flying?"
I hesitate, searching his face, wondering if he actually cares or if he’s just making conversation. Finally, I exhale, deciding to tell the truth. "Flying. Crashing. People pulling guns on me. People getting shot. It’s all too much."
Bridger doesn’t flinch. He leans over, pops open a small cabinet beside the row of seats, and pulls out two miniature bottles of whiskey. He hands one to me. “Drink. It’ll calm you down. Maybe help you sleep.”
Sleep? Not a chance in hell. But I twist the cap off anyway and tip the bottle back, the amber liquid burning a path down my throat. I cough and swallow back the flames.
Across from me, Damian lets out a scoff, tugging the hood of his sweatshirt lower over his face. He stretches his legs out like he owns the space, then drifts off within seconds, as if none of this affects him at all.
Bridger nudges the second bottle toward me. I take it without hesitation, swallowing it down in one go. Warmth spreads through my belly, dulling the sharp edges of my nerves.
I glance up at Bridger, my tongue loose from the whiskey, and wince. “Were you the one who called Damian last night when I answered? Jackass?”
Bridger’s expression falters, a flicker of pity crossing his face. "Yeah . . ."
Regret gnaws at me instantly. "Sorry. I’m not usually . . . I didn’t . . ." I sigh and shrug, giving up. Heat bites at my cheeks.
I want to ask questions. I want to understand everything I don’t know about this situation with the money, about Damian, about why the hell my father thought I would have that kind ofmoney lying around. But when our eyes lock, reality hits me like a lead weight. These aren’t friends; these two massive, Viking-looking men were in my bakery not even an hour ago, armed with crowbars.
I need to keep my mouth shut. My head clear. My thoughts and fears locked up tight. Neither of them is here to help me, especially not Damian. No matter how fun last night was.
And hewasfun. He knew exactly how to make a woman?—
No. Stop.Lo, stop thinking about it.
I force myself to sit up straighter, clearing my throat. "I’m just going to try and sleep now. Thank you."
Bridger hesitates. His lips part like he wants to say something, but then, just as quickly, he snaps his mouth shut. Without another word, he rises and makes his way back to his seat beside Damian.
I close my eyes, trying to will myself into a blank, weightless void but Damian’s voice slices through the air like a blade.
"Don’t fall for it, Bridge," he growls, low and venomous. "She isn’t worth it. Trust me."
The words stab right through my chest. My pulse pounds in my ears. My breath catches, sharp and painful. Tears press at the backs of my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall.
I cycle through every breathing exercise I know. Nothing works.
I don’t deserve that. And, more importantly, I refuse to believe it. I won’t sit here and pretend last night meant nothing to him. Isawthe way he looked at me. Iheardhim ask me to stay. My worth isn’t for him to decide. And if he thinks his shitty opinion defines me, then that says more about him than it ever could about me.
I get it. It was just a hookup. But that doesn’t mean I’m worthless.
Oh, when we get to my father’s place, when I get that money, I’m going to make Damian eat his words. And Joel? Somethinghasto happen to that asshole. He can’t just get away with how he touched me and what he’s doing.
