“Okay, maybe a little.” I gesture at the jet, which is right there, being intimidating. “When you said ‘private airstrip,’ I thought you meant, like, a guy named Doug with a crop duster. Not...this.”
“You thought I was flying to LA on a crop duster?”
“I didn’t think it through!”
He laughs. Pulls me into a hug. I breathe him in, soap and coffee and that cologne he wears that I’ve never asked the name of because I’m afraid it costs more than my monthly rent.
“It’s just a plane,” he says into my hair.
“It’s not just a plane. It’s a ‘I have more money than some small countries’ plane.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Is it, though?”
He pulls back, hands on my shoulders, looking at me with that soft expression that makes my chest hurt. “Does it bother you? The money stuff?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” I take a breath. “It just hit me. How different our lives are. You have a jet, Levi. I have an old Honda with a check engine light that’s been on for months.”
“I like your car.”
“You’ve never been in it.”
“I’m sure it has character.”
“It has a mysterious smell I can’t locate. That’s not character. That’s concerning.”
He’s laughing again, and I realize I’m laughing too, and some of the panic is loosening in my chest.
“Delilah.” He takes my hands. “I don’t care about any of this stuff. The plane, the money, whatever. It’s just…stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Easy to say when you have it.”
“Fair.” He nods. “But I’ve had it for a while now, and you know what I’ve learned? It doesn’t make you happy or keep you warm at night. It doesn’t catch fish with you on a pier or bring you coffee when you’re stressed.”
“The fish wasn’t really caught. It escaped. Victoriously.”
“Not the point.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hands. “I’m just…processing.”
“Take your time. The pilot’s not in a hurry.” He glances toward the jet. “Actually, he is. He has a dinner reservation in LA. But he can wait.”
A woman appears at the top of the stairs with a sleek ponytail and a tablet in hand, the kind of efficient energy that makes me feel like I should be standing up straighter.
“Mr. Cole, we should really...”
“Five more minutes, Harper.”
“The flightwindow...”
“Five minutes.”
She purses her lips but retreats back inside. I watch her go, then turn to Levi.
“Mr. Cole?”
“That’s my stage name.”
