Page 44 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“Fine, but if I pee my pants on your Italian leather, it’s on you,” she says, and I sigh, closing my eyes again.

I will literally pay her more if she shuts up. I should add that to the contract before our next flight.

“Seriously. Why are you so disgruntled? I get that you don’t like flying, but you don’t have to be a dick,” she says. “Flying is perfectly safe.”

“Not always,” I argue.

“Mostly,” she says.

“Mostly doesn’t change–” I stop. And something about my tone seems to shut her up.

When we finally stop climbing, she gets up and goes to the bathroom. Donovan turns to me and lets out a breath.

“She is a lot,” he chuckles lightly.

“I don’t know why I expected differently,” I admit, my hands loosening on the armrests slightly. “She’s a travel journalist.”

“They are a bit wild,” Donovan says.

“You mean unhinged,” I mutter, and he chuckles. “With her Jasmine pants and her blanket and her wasabi peas. Not to mention her fruit snacks.”

“Are they working?” he asks.

“Are what working?” I ask, taking a sip from my water bottle.

“The ashwagandha gummies,” he says.

“What makes you think they’re working?”

“You’re a lot more chill than you were a couple of minutes ago,” he points out, and I roll my eyes.

“Because the air is smoother now,” I say, and he nods.

But honestly, I do feel calmer. I might have to add some of those to my carry-on.

Chapter 15

Scarlett

I have been to California before. Sonoma, San Francisco and upstate during a drive along the coastal highway clear up to Canada. I have never been to San Diego, but let me tell you, it lives up to the hype.

It’s sunny but not hot, putting Miami to shame in that department. It’s also beautiful. Sailboats and beaches with gorgeous cliffs. Palm trees and an epic skyline. Shops and markets, and piers.

As we drive from the airport to the resort, I am making a checklist on my phone of all the places I want to visit while I am here as we pass them.

“This is just amazing,” I say. Honestly, I am a little annoyed that I am tucked into the back of the SUV. While I understand that this is a private shuttle from Bale Resorts and I am riding with Morgan Bale himself and his personal assistant, I don’t know how I am supposed to get photos and videos of the journey from the third row of an Escalade.

“Do you think you could roll your window down?” I ask, leaning in so my head is poking through the two men in front of me.

“What for?” Morgan spits out. “Also, do you literally have no regard for seatbelts at all?”

I ignore the second question. Because I am wearing my seatbelt. The lap belt anyways.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I sass back. “Maybe so I can do my job? It’s kind of hard to get photos of the city when my only view of it is out of a tiny tinted window. People are going to think I was kidnapped.”

“Your job is to document the resort,” Morgan argues without looking at me. “You can take photos when we get there.”

“No,” I argue back, undoing my seatbelt and crawling over the middle row to the passenger seat. “My job is to show the world the city. People care about the city the resort is in, you know. That’s how they pick which one they want to go to.”