It wasn’t a blush-worthy compliment, and yet Will found himself thankful for his golden tan, because that was quite possibly the nicest thing Cole Dalton had ever said to him. Hearing it left him, pardon the pun, flat-footed. He groped for something to say, anything to move them back into comfortable animosity, when?—
Ping.
He was saved by the bell—or notification in this case. Cole’s eyes went slightly wide as he looked down at his phone. “That’s the fastest he’s ever responded.”
“Wow. Podophilia for the win,” Will said.
“I guess.” Cole tapped on his phone for a few more minutes, eyes intent as he paced around the room. There was a little line between his eyebrows that just begged for a touch to smooth it out, and Will was only mildly surprised when he realized he wanted to be the one to do it.
That Stockholm Syndrome sets in fast.
He pulled out his latest phone and shot off a text.
Tell me not to do something really stupid.
His brother got back to him almost immediately.
Stupid like trying to fly a plane you’re not certified on, or stupid like getting drunk, putting on a wig, and competing in the Miss Dolly Parton look-alike lip sync?
I won that contest!
I don’t want to know how you learned to do makeup like that. So it’s two, then? You’re about to do something embarrassing?
Quite possibly.
Embarrassing himself in Cole’s presence seemed inevitable, but then again, Will was never afraid of a little embarrassment. He could do things that other people balked at—put himselfinto situations they never would—and pretend to be the kind of person others hated, all for the sake of getting what he wanted.
I think it might be fun, though.
Maybe wait until you’re not working a job, huh? Keep your mind in the moment.
Baby Boy, you think I can’t do both?
Dots appeared and disappeared as Davey stopped, started, and rewrote whatever it was he wanted to say. Finally all that appeared was:
All I want is for you to come home safe.
Will smiled.
You know I always do.
“Montreal.”
He looked over at Cole and waited for an explanation. Nothing was forthcoming. “Montreal what?”
“Is where we’re going.” He turned on his heel and walked down a comically wide hall for what was supposed to be an apartment. “I’m getting dressed. We leave in five. I hope you weren’t lying about the passport.”
“I’ll be ready,” Will called after him.
As long as there was no dress code, he’d be fine.
CHAPTER 8
“Doesn’t your family have, like, a private jet or something?” Will whispered as they tried in vain to get comfortable in the cramped seats. “Why are we flying peasant class?”
Cole closed his eyes and pushed out a breath through his nose. In that moment, he’d have gleefully boarded one of his parents’ aircraft and listened to Mother talk for the entire flight. That sounded like heaven compared to shoehorning himself into the middle seat between two people who made him want to commit violence. Will, of course, but also the clown who had the aisle seat, a razor-sharp elbow, and zero sense of personal space. Cole had to keep his knees pressed tightly together to avoid touching Will or falling victim to Aisle Guy’s manspreading.
At least the flight was short. They were already leveling out at cruising altitude, and in less than two hours, they’d be deplaning and on their way to get information out of one of the most insufferable clowns he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. That said a lot, given that Cole knew Marcus, his family’s entire social circle, and the asshat sitting beside him. What had he called their ex? A taint barnacle? Because that was the pot calling the kettle black.
