If it weren’t for those two things, the pilots and flight attendant would be scraping my dead-tired body off the tarmac with one of those giant pizza flippers right now.
I did not get one ounce of sleep last night, and I blame Rath Westin.
I’m going to get all girly for a second because, how could I not, but . . . OH MY GOD! He changed his schedule—for me—so I could go to my grandma’s birthday brunch. He declined a golf invite so I could personally hand deliver a card to my grandma that says, “Do your boobs hang low? They do.” in the prettiest handwriting I’ve ever created. And he didn’t give me grief about it. Even Mr. Danvers wasn’t that nice. He apologized profusely if schedules clashed, but business always came first, so he made sure I was at the event.
I tossed and turned in my bed, trying to wrap my head around the man I talked to last night. The man who didn’t believe money meant he could throw a pilot’s schedule. He believed he’d been an asshole all week, and perhaps on the surface he had been. Never once had he said thank you or showed appreciation for the many accomplishments I achieved. Never once has he asked nicely, but simply demanded his requests be actioned. Asshole? Perhaps. But he made a small gesture that wasn’t so small to me. Renita had been genuinely warm in her praise of Rath during orientation, and I’m finally understanding her sentiment. His friends are lucky. Julia is lucky. Because I think they’re the only ones who see how much the man can give in kindness. He’s a good guy, but he hides behind a tough front.
To say his confession hit me hard is an understatement because now, Rath Westin has a soft spot in my heart.
Lifting my feet onto the seat, I curl into it, strap myself in my seat belt, and lean against the side of the chair, my body begging for some sleep.
“There’s a bed in the back,” Rath says, catching my eye.
“Oh no, you go night-night back there, I’m just resting my eyes.”
He lifts his briefcase to the table and says, “I’m going to be working.” He rifles through his bag and then pauses. His brow pulls together and then he looks at me. He found it. I try to hold back my smile, but it’s impossible.
Pulling out a historical romance, he holds it up to me and says, “What the hell is this?”
I chuckle. “It’s your very first bodice ripper. I inscribed the front for you.”
He flips the front over and reads it out loud. “To Rath, the broody and tempered hero. Enjoy this riveting novel about how men like you can be taken down by a woman like me. Wink. Your assistant, Charlee Cox – like lots of penises, like a bag of them.”
He looks up at me and then shakes his head. He tosses the book at me. “Not going to happen.”
“Hey, I paid six dollars for that and spent a good amount of time at the drugstore between lunch and the event picking out the perfect book.” I toss it back at him. “You better read it and give me a report about your favorite parts.”
“I don’t read—”
“CEOs apparently read fifty-two books a year. At least the successful ones do.”
“I don’t read books like that,” he states.
“It might spice up your life. You said you were single.” I tap the book. “There are some good tips in there, some real from the earth type things.”
His brows sharpen even further. “I don’t need tips.”
“Oh, of course not.” I roll my eyes. “Let me guess. You’re a magician in bed who can make a girl orgasm by only looking at her breasts.”
“That’s highly inappropriate to talk about with your boss.”
“Ugh, snob.” I stand and look behind him. “Bed is back there?”
“Yes, with fresh sheets. Don’t worry about drooling, they’ll change them again.”
“I don’t drool.”
“You did on the drive here,” he says, opening his computer, not even looking at me.
Uh-huh, I see how it’s going to be. Mr. Nice Guy is gone and in his place is the stoic boss man crust pants again. That’s fine. No problem. I’ve read enough to know exactly how to handle men like him. Take them down one inch at a time.
Easy.
My alarm buzzes next to me. I didn’t want to look like a deadbeat assistant, so I set my alarm and took an hour-long catnap. And there is no drool . . .
Standing from the bed, I look in the accompanying mirror and adjust my clothes, wipe at the mascara residue under my eyes, and pat down the flyaway hairs. For waking up at the ass-crack of dawn after little sleep, I did a really good job with my hair and makeup this morning. And of course, I put on a cute pair of white shorts and a blue blouse with my favorite Esperanza sandals, the perfect brunch outfit.
Happy with the not-so-dead look I thought I was sporting this morning, I crack the door open to the main cabin and peek through the slit just in case Rath fell asleep. He was looking tired, and I don’t want to wake him up.
But what I see instead of a sleeping Rath nearly shocks me out of my contact lenses.
Color.
Me.
Surprised.
Sitting in his chair, leg crossed, he’s reading the book I gave him and not just reading it but engrossed in it. I watch as his eyes bounce back and forth over the page, taking in every last word as if his life depended on it.
Not what I read, my ass.
Knowing he doesn’t like to be startled but not caring whatsoever, I count to three and then . . .
“I knew it,” I scream, flinging the door open, startling the book right out of Rath’s hands as he grips the handles of his chair, his chest rising and falling, the terrified look on his face too comical not to laugh.
“What the actual fuck, Charlee?” he asks, leaning his head against the headrest and taking a deep breath.
Walking over to him with a pompous strut, I stand over the book and point at it. “You’re questioning me, when you’re the one reading smut when you should be working.” I tsk at him and pick up the book. “Very daring of you, don’t you think?”
“Jesus Christ.” He snaps the book from my hand and sets it on the table. Then he stands and towers over me for a few seconds, staring me down. Finally, he says, “Move.”
I nervously laugh. “Where are you going, boss man?”
“To check if I have piss in my pants, thank you very much.”
I snort and cover my mouth while he walks past me, his shoulder bumping into mine. As he walks away, I call out, “I have biodegradable wet wipes in my purse if you need them.”
The door to the bathroom slams and I fall into my chair, my head resting against my arms as I lean against the table, unable to hold my body up from the giggles.
That will by far go down as one of my favorite moments of all time.
Aahh, errrrr, pissssssss, heart attack . . . that was the esteemed Rath Westin, ladies and gentlemen.
Tears, I have actual tears.
We pull up to my grandma’s senior living center, feeling a little awkward since Rath is dropping me off as if he’s my dad. Well, technically his driver is dropping me off. I told him I could take a taxi, but Rath wouldn’t allow that.
“Here we are,” I sing-song.
Rath looks up from his phone and nods, then returns to the device. He hasn’t said much to me since the whole fright in flight incident. But, I will say this, he did slip the book into his briefcase instead of pinning me between the eyes with it like I thought he would.