Page 42 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“Why would I be nervous to fly?” I snap.

But I know what he’s talking about. It’s no secret that I don’t fly. I haven’t been on a plane in years, and it was only because there was an emergency at our resort in Vegas. It’s half the reason Conrad is the man who does that part of the job. I don’t do planes. Period.

“Protocols have changed a lot in the last couple of decades,” he says. “And you know we’ve hired the best.”

“I’m aware,” I state.

And honestly, I hate that I feel this way. I hate that after what happened all those years ago, Conrad was able to go on with his life as if it had never happened. As if life hadn’t changed for either of us at all.

We were going to inherit the company either way; he argued.

But not like this. Not in a way that ripped our family in half. Literally. The handing down of a company of this size should be a celebration. A momentous event. Instead, it was dumped in our laps out of nowhere. Tangled in tragedy and bad media coverage. It was like being sixteen and finding out your parents bought you a car for your birthday, but their way of telling you was running you over with it.

It took years to recover both the company and our lives after that. Conrad and I recovered in different ways. Which is why we are the way we are now.

“Forget about him,” Donovan says. “And focus on the job in front of us. On how great this is going to look for Bale Resorts. And for you.”

“Yeah, if Scarlett ever decides to show–”

“I’m here,” her voice comes from behind me, and both of us turn around to find Scarlett hurrying towards us. She is wearing an orange tank top that reveals about two inches of her waist and black linen pants that tie at the ankles and slit all the way to her thighs on the sides. Her hair is in a loose, messy braid, and she has a messenger bag and a rainbow-colored blanket in tow.

She looks both exhausted and beautiful, and it’s almost enough to distract me from her tardiness. Almost.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she stops next to us, and I swear there is a literal cloud of her scent swirling around the air. Raspberry. Coconut. This girl is a cocktail of new fruits every time I see her. I’ve never been a sweets man, but fuck.

“You almost missed the flight,” I state.

“I had a hard time navigating the private terminal,” she admits, ignoring my tone entirely. Meanwhile, Donovan is smiling, which is not helping. “I actually went into the regular part of the airport at first, and then it hit me. Bale has a private jet,” she giggles. “But don’t worry. I snagged some flight snacks while I was there,” she says, rattling a bag of spicy trail mix in our faces.

“There’s food on private jets,” I smirk, but it is no way a happy smirk. “Real food.”

“But do they have wasabi trail mix?” she asks, shaking the bag, and Donovan snorts, then bites it back.

“We have to go,” I state, and Scarlett gives me a two-finger salute.

This is going to be a long, long flight.

“Just breathe,” Donovan says under his breath as the plane taxis. It’s no secret that I am gripping the armrests hard enough to rip them off the seat.

“This is exciting,” Scarlett says. She is sitting on the other side of the aisle, staring out the window. “I’ve never been on a private jet before.”

“Really,” I say monotonously. “We couldn’t tell.”

“It’s so tiny,” she says. “Is it even a real plane?” she jokes.

“Alright,” Donovan says gently. “It’s not a baby bird.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Scarlett says. “Baby birds can’t fly.”

A ball of bile shoots up to the back of my throat, and I swallow hard.

“How about we don’t talk anymore until we are in the air, hmm?” Donovan suggests.

“Sure,” Scarlett says. “Is something wrong?”

“Morgan here is not a fan of flying,” he answers.

“Really? A man like him? Surely he flies all the time,” she says, and I finally speak up.