Suddenly my underwear is too tight. I need to think about something else right now. Like the sight of my uncle’s face when he hears that I accidentally got married.
Instant boner killer. He’s going to scalp me.
“I was under the influence,” Charli says with a scowl.
Even her scowl is pretty. I’ve been attracted to her ever since that first day when she yelled at me. And last night was a game-changer. I can’t unsee that. I can’t unwant it, either. I might have gotten it, too, except that my dick went to sleep before the grand finale.
I have so many regrets. I can’t believe I blew my shot before I could, um, blow my shot. We’re definitely going to revisit this question at a later date.
First I have a marriage to dissolve. And Charli still hasn’t eaten her breakfast. “Is there something wrong with that quiche? If there is, I want management to know.”
She gives me a withering look and lets out a sigh. “It’s fine. The peas are a strange choice, though.” She reaches over and steals a strawberry off my waffle.
With my own fork, I grab a bite of her quiche. And, yup, the peas really are a strange choice. “Marsha?” I call out, and the flight attendant comes running. “Could you bring Charli a bowl of strawberries and a waffle?”
“Of course!” She picks up Charli’s plate.
“Also? Could you send a memo to the chef that peas don’t belong in a quiche? Like, ever?”
“Yessir. Right away, sir.”
“Neil!” Charli yelps. “You can’t do that. The man could get fired if some message comes down saying the heir to the Drake family throne doesn’t like his cooking. Jesus. It’s only a few peas.”
“He won’t get fired. Marsha!”
Her head pops out of the galley again. “Yes, Mr. Drake?”
“Never mind about the peas. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“Yessir. The waffle will be two minutes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Marsha’s subservient demeanor just makes Charli scowl harder. “How do they make waffles on a jet, anyway?”
“There’s a waffle iron affixed to the wall right above the toaster oven. The batter is premixed in disposable cups.”
She shakes her head like this is the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. And maybe it is. We’ve always catered to the one percent of the one percent. My grandfather started Drake Enterprises in 1966, after retiring from a long and distinguished Air Force career. My father and uncle ran it after his death.
Four years ago, my father died at the age of eighty-one. Now my uncle runs the company, with the help of his son, who’s almost twice my age. My mother, my sister, and I control some stock, two seats on the board, and half the family’s charitable foundation.
That’s how I happen to know how the waffles are made. And that’s why the flight attendant looks as though she’d offer up a limb if I asked her to spare one.
Honestly, being the heir to Drake Enterprises is mostly a pain in the ass. Every time I try to make a difference at the company, I get shot down. My board seat is only useful to me once or twice a year.
Today just happens to be one of those days.
When Charli’s waffle shows up, she finds her appetite and gobbles it down. She doesn’t even grimace when I prick my finger at the table to test my blood sugar, probably because she’s seen me do it a dozen times before.
This month I’m calibrating a new insulin pump as part of a research project. It’s finicky and time consuming. But I don’t complain, because nobody wants to hear a rich guy gripe.
Charli isn’t a complainer, either. That’s part of why I like her so much. She knows the world is cracked and bitching about it is just a waste of breath.
Mostly. Occasionally she needs a good scream into the void. And then she’s back to her default setting of suck it up, buttercup.
Although today we have a problem that neither of us can ignore. Charli is sneaking glances at me while mowing down that bowl of strawberries.
“What?” I finally ask her. It’s my secret, fervent hope that she’s sitting over there picturing me naked.
“What are we going to do?” she asks. “I still think we should have gone back to that county clerk and asked about an annulment. That’s what they do on TV.”
I wince. “Do you really want to go AWOL from practice?”
“Of course not,” she grumbles. “But I don’t want to be married to you, either.”
“You’re hard on a guy’s ego, Charli.”
She grins. “I’ve been told that before.”
“I’ll bet. Let’s call my lawyer right now. He’ll sort this out.”
“That sounds expensive.” She bites on her lip, and I’d like to bite it too.
“Listen.” I lean forward on the table and nail her with a stare, which is, to my grave disappointment, the only thing I’ve managed to nail her with. “I know you roll your eyes when I throw money at problems. But there’s no way around it, okay? I’m going to throw all the money at this problem and make it go away. And you’re going to just nod and smile.”
She scowls. “I hate it when you go all alpha rich guy.”
“Even when it’s going to make your life easier?” There’s no way she can pay a lawyer. She can barely make the rent.
We both know she’s going to have to eat her pride this time.
“I’ll nod, but I won’t smile,” she finally agrees.
“Fine.” I pull out my phone, place it on the surface of the table, and call Cassius Witherspoon, our family lawyer.
He answers on the second ring, because old money talks. My family has been his client since his grandfather ran the firm. “Neil,” he says in his gruff voice. “What can I do for you?”
“I got a little problem,” I tell him. “Something I need you to make go away.”
“Who is it?” he asks. “A woman? Is this a paternity situation?”
Across the table from me, Charli rolls her eyes so hard that it might cause permanent damage. Then she collapses back against the leather upholstery, as if the first four seconds of this call has already killed her.
“Cassius, it’s nothing like that. My friend and I pulled a dumb stunt last night in Las Vegas, and we need you to dissolve our…” I swallow hard. “Hasty drunken marriage.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “A Vegas wedding? How did that happen? Did you go to the clerk’s office? If you didn’t get a license, the wedding isn’t legal.”
“We, uh, went to the clerk’s office.” Now I feel like a seven-year-old kid who’s been called to the principal’s office. Only dumber. “Our friends were going to the clerk’s office, so we went with them. And we bought a license as a joke.”
“As a joke,” he repeats slowly. “Did your friends get married, too?”
“No.” I sigh. “They’re getting married next time we’re in Vegas. The license is good for a year.”
My teammate Bryce Campeau and Petra, his sweetheart, have decided to have a small Vegas wedding when we play there in March. Last night they’d been preparing for it. Like normal, responsible adults.