“Jesus,” he exhales. “I know, man. I’m sorry for putting you on the spot. I just want to see you meet someone. You do everything alone, Stetson. It can’t be good for you…at your age,” Clay draws out, already anticipating the daggers I shoot his way.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I grunt.
“This isn’t a dating show. There’s no marriage proposal at the end. It’s just an interview. Some useless local celebrity fun. If all goes well, maybe you’ll actually get to brag about your nutritious cows. You never know where the conversation may take you. Unless you’d rather I call Jules to come entertain you instead?”
“The hell you will.” He meets me at the staircase of the porch, tall, lanky frame resting against a cedar pillar. “Just this once.” I point a finger at him. “Then, I swear to god, you so much as whisper my sad and pathetic singlehood to anyone again, and I’ll feed you to the fucking hogs. You hear me, Clay?”
A full and ridiculously annoying smile crests his face. “Loud and clear, boss.”
CHAPTER FIVE
cove
“Each time you happen to me all over again.”
Edith Wharton
“Good work today,Cove. I know waiting on that bastard isn’t easy.”
I laugh, rolling my crew bag behind me as I follow Jake, my pilot from today’s short flight, into the private terminal for Seascape in Miami. “You know I can take it. Nothing a little harmless flirting can’t handle.”
Jake looks me up and down, eyes shamelessly examining my legs. “I suppose so,” he mumbles before walking off. I’m wearing the same outfit as always. Just my typical navy blue flight uniform, a pair of black stilettos, and my signature red lip. I’ve been told it complements my pale complexion and jet-black hair well.
Jake knows this is how I present myself at work. Is it comfortable to wear heels of this height for hours at a time while serving clients?
Not even a little.
But I do it for the money. The tips. It takes very little effort to get dolled up and put on the prettiest of fronts for wealthy clients. Besides, no millionaire or billionaire wants to be waited on by someone who lacks pride in the way they dress.
I think that goes without saying.
So, for me, being uncomfortable pays off in the end.
Today, however, I catered to not only one of my wealthiest clients but also the most perverse. I have the unfortunate displeasure of flying with Pierson Belmont a few times a month and have to prepare myself mentally to be around him. Pierson is the founder of Pierson Cruise Lines. With more than a handful of operating cruise ships sailing directly out of the Miami Beach port, Pierson’s entire operation requires very little work from him now that he’s so successful. Cruising in Florida is ranked the number one luxury vacation destination, as it truly encompasses it all—food, entertainment, accommodations, excursions, and more.
Which not only means money lining his pockets, but also gives Pierson the freedom to let his people work while he travels, not having to worry about a single thing.
And trust me, he doesn’t. I get to hear all about his escapades. This time, we jetted him to Aruba for a quick forty-eight-hour turnaround so that he could meet up with his new fling. For being close to seventy, the guy seems to have no issues warming his bed.
And yet, somehow, someway, he still has the nerve to hit on me.
Persistently.
The one benefit of this short trip was enjoying the poolside views of Aruba. Where my clients play, I get to play, too. Not exactly a bad gig, if I say so myself.
Now that I’m back home, my body cries to take the longest everything shower, throw on a face mask, a cheesy rom-com, and veg out on the couch for the foreseeable future with Betsy.
But first, I need to check on my mom. I didn’t hear from her while I was away, and it has me a bit worried. I know she would call if there was any type of emergency, but I can’t help waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because it always does.
I hustle through the terminal as fast as my pointed heels will allow, pulling out my phone to call my mom when I plow full speed into a firm wall.
“Shit,” I groan, everything falling and moving in slow motion.
The phone in my hand is now airborne. The heels on my feet are somehow above my head. My crew bag is now somewhere out of sight. And worst of all, my lucky flight skirt is split right down the center. I don’t need to look down to confirm it.
The cool breeze between my thighs tells me everything I need to know.
