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Right?
CHAPTER FOUR
I’m prepared like a horny Girl Scout.
BLAIR
Now
“Folks, we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet. I’ve turned the seat belt sign off for now, but ask that you remain seated as much as possible.” The captain warns, “We might have some chop ahead.”
Did he say chop?
Or death?
I tug my seat belt tighter.
“You alright there, Kitten?” Beau catches my terrified gesture.
I don’t care if we’re sitting in luxury in the sky. It’s still the sky, and gravity still works. It’s my second time on a plane, and I start regretting eating eggs over easy for breakfast.
“I’m fine,” I lie, trying not to focus on our imminent plunge into the ocean.
Across from me in his recliner is Beau, smiling, looking way too sexy, and five minutes from his forced beach vacation. He’s sporting a thin, white V-neck T-shirt, giving me peeks of those carved pecs dusted with dark hair that make me feral. His khaki shorts are relaxed over his flexing quads, and his flips flop over groomed feet.
Yes, even Beau’s toes are turn-ons.
Across the aisle from us in matching recliners are Colton and Amber. I gotta admit they’re the best distraction when you fear death any second.
It’s like studying a masterpiece painting from the What The Fuck era.
Colton Hawke looks like Thor had a baby with Ink Master. He’s big for a wide receiver but still exceptionally fast—even I know that—and that’s what makes him one of the greatest in the league.
But come on. Football doesn’t impress me.
So, is it his dark blond hair that falls past his broad shoulders? Nope. His trim beard? No. His features that look like a Nordic god who can smash you to bits, or the tattoos from his knuckles, up his beefy arms, disappearing under his lavender t-shirt? Nah.
It’s his eyes.
They’re deep brown and tender. They avoided Beau but greeted me with genuine kindness as if he already knew me.
So why is this colossal, sweet hunk dating an enormous ego slut?
Don’t judge my judging.
I’m using empirical evidence.
Amber Kostas has posted sixty out of the ninety minutes so far on this flight. She chats to her socials, sucking her cheeks in, sharing contouring tips and warnings like it’s live news of a possible nuclear make-up meltdown.
Here I am with a ponytail and no makeup except for my red lips, though I’m so nervous I must be fifty shades of green. But Amber? She shimmers all blonde in a million shades of blended bronze.
Hell, I thought a tan was free, but apparently, as Amber informs us and her followers, her natural bronze costs one hundred and five dollars from Hermès.
Beau’s killer blues threaten to permanently roll to the back of his skull. Colton tunes her out with his Bose headphones on and eyes closed. And I thought people can’t use their phones on planes, but when it’s a private jet to Belize, you are free to annoy the shit out of everyone.
Jimmy Williams, the head coach of Atlanta, and his wife, Maureen, are seated on a sofa toward the front of the jet while the flight attendant starts pouring champagne.
Apparently, the Williams are turning Beau and Colton’s forced retreat into their vacation. They’ll stay on the mainland while we are stuck on an island with Amber, the CNN of Cosmetics.
