Her eyes widen, but she tries to play it cool. “That sounds excessive.”
“Good thing we’re just doing the jet and the fireworks,” I tease.
She nudges my foot with hers. “Okay. But if I find out you sold your Grammy to fund this, we’re turning around.”
I grin. “The Grammys are safe. For now.”
I climb out first and offer her my hand. The sun is bright overhead, the engines hum low, and her hair whips around her face in the breeze. She takes my hand and steps out slowly, cautiously—like she’s not sure if she’s boarding a jet or crossing into Narnia.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Ryder,” the flight attendant says, flashing a professional smile. “Everything’s ready.”
“Thanks, Celine.”
Olive freezes. “Youknowthe flight attendant?”
“She’s flown with me before. She makes a killer espresso martini, if you’re interested.”
Olive laughs—nervously—and climbs the steps with me at her heels.
Inside, the cabin is all soft beige leather, dark wood paneling, and buttery lighting. The seats recline fully. There’s a queen-sized bed tucked in the back, a stocked bar, a screen the size of her entire living room wall.
She spins in a slow circle once we’re inside. “Okay, this isn’t a plane. This is a Bond villain’s lair.”
I throw our bags into the storage bin and hand her a glass of champagne that Celine has already poured.
“To the engagement moon,” I say, clinking my glass with juice against hers.
She narrows her eyes but takes a sip. “Not gonna lie—I thought this would be a cute Airbnb and maybe a cab from the airport.”
“That’s adorable,” I say with a grin. “No. This is the bare minimum you deserve.”
“Bare minimum?” she repeats, incredulous.
I shrug, sinking into one of the plush seats and patting the one beside me. “What’s the point of a vacation if the travel’s a hassle and the hotel’s just… fine? We should treat ourselves. Enjoy this time together.”
She snorts but sits beside me. Her legs stretch out on the footrest, eyes still darting everywhere like she’s afraid she’ll accidentally break a chandelier.
“I don’t know what to do with myself in here,” she says. “Is there amanualfor how to be chill on a private jet?”
“You’re doing great.” I pop open a tin of lemon-rosemary almonds from the snack tray and offer her one. “Also, I promise it gets easier. Next time you won’t even flinch when the champagne is pre-poured.”
Her eyes widen again. “There’s a next time?”
I lean back in my seat, stretching one arm behind her shoulders and murmuring, “Oh, baby. You think this is a one-time thing?”
She stares at me for a long moment, then shoves a pillow into my face.
I’m still laughing as the engines roar to life and we start taxiing.
***
The flight to Tulum is smoother than I expected—clear skies, quiet engines, and Olive curled up beside me under a cream cashmere blanket like she was made to be here. We sip our drinks, trade lazy smiles, and let the world shrink to just this cabin.
She falls asleep halfway through a movie, her head resting on my shoulder.
By the time we land in Tulum, the air is thick with salt and sun.
A sleek, black luxury SUV with tinted windows and ice-cold air conditioning waits for us at the edge of the private airstrip. The driver wears white linen and offers us chilled towels and bottled water before whisking us down a winding road flanked by palm trees and wild bougainvillea.
