“Hey, Clark,” she says, smiling conspiratorially, and then she turns to me. “Hello, fiancé!” she says. “We need nicknames. Like, babe or something. But not babe, because that’s totally unimaginative.”
“You call me Rex,” I say.
“You can call me kitten.”
I give her a hard look. “I’ll be calling you Tabitha.” She’s the kind of woman who’ll take the wheel if you don’t stop her.
She sighs. “Okay…Rrrex.”
Clark snorts and takes her small suitcase, which matches the very giant one that my driver is extracting from the trunk of the town car.
She beams at Clark. “Thanks.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, aggravated already.
They both turn.
I yank the case out of Clark’s hand. “She’s my fiancée,” I say in a low voice, “not yours. Let’s try to be in character here, huh? The help needs to buy our engagement. And you…” I say to her, pulse racing.
Her pretty brows furrow. “What?”
“Just…” I don’t know what I want to say. Behave, act normal.
“I got this, Rex,” she says in a way that makes my blood churn. I wave her up the stairs in front of me and go up behind her, feeling agitated at the way her skirt cups and shapes the curves of her ass.
I remind myself that it’s good I have this agitated reaction to her. There will be no temptation, no distraction, no sex—and therefore no emotional demands. No morning-after obligations. No scenes when I tell her to leave me alone. No being trapped in a confined space with somebody I don’t want to be with.
I didn’t make a billion dollars just to end up as one-half of a miserable couple hemmed in by four walls and tearful demands. I worked like a dog to have the precise opposite of that.
She pauses at the top of the air steps. I set my hand on the small of her back, conscious of the sensation of her under my touch. Is she wearing some extra-soft fabric? I never think about fabric. The women I touch are usually naked for me already. I like them to undress themselves for me. I like my things unwrapped.
“Showtime,” I mumble under my breath, guiding her into the main cabin.
“Wow,” she says, looking around, impressed, eyes like saucers. She’s already screwing up her role.
I lean in. “Try not to look like a fucking extra from Oliver Twist gaping at a loaf of bread. As my fiancée, you’re used to this kind of luxury.”
“But I’ve never ridden in your plane,” she whispers playfully, with a little tilt of the head. “I’m impressed.” She straightens as the pilot approaches. “You always do have such excellent taste, Rex.”
I need to tell her not to say my name like that. It’s distracting.
“So true,” Clark says, catching up to us. “After all, he picked you.”
She beams at him.
I introduce her as my fiancée to the pilot and the crew. They’re shocked at the news of my engagement, but try not to show it. “Congratulations,” says Cassie, my head attendant. “I didn’t know…” She looks at me, bewildered.
“It’s not public yet,” I say. “We’ve been keeping a low profile. We expect absolute discretion.”
She nods. “Of course.”
I don’t like misleading the people who’ve been with me forever, but we can’t go back now. It’s not as if we can tell them it’s just a ploy; people gossip, and a pretend engagement would be more gossip-worthy than an actual engagement.
“It’s my fault he couldn’t tell,” Tabitha says, sliding her hand into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I swallow, stunned by the feel of her fingers sliding so intimately between my fingers. I need to tell her not to do that. The whole point is for me not to be distracted.
“I just prefer it under wraps for now,” she continues, “and Rex has been so cool about it. With all of the negative publicity about his supposed peccadillos, and my grandmother so injured, I think she’d keel over if she learned of this engagement. She would see those articles about Rex—and, well, she’s old, and things upset her.”
“I get it. I’m so sorry,” Cassie says.
“She’ll be fine,” Tabitha says.
“Well, congratulations.” She looks between me and Tabitha. “I’m really happy for you.”
Does Tabitha truly have an injured grandmother? Clark said something about some backgrounder he filled out on my behalf, and she must’ve filled one out too. I recall something in my inbox. I should’ve looked at it.
I realize I’m staring at her. Does a fiancé say something at this juncture? “How is she today?”
“As good as can be expected.” She squeezes my hand.
I nod.
“Let me show you the ropes,” Cassie says, thankfully ending this conversation. “This plane is a Versace 1120-E. We like you to take the forward upright seating during takeoff. Stan and I have the front row for proximity to the kitchen.” She leads her to the work seats, waving her hand. “Mr. O’Rourke likes to use this area as an office.” Cassie shows her the Wi-Fi and safety stuff, brings her through to the next section, the rear lounge area.
At one point, Tabitha looks back at me, pointing at something and mouthing something behind Cassie’s back.
“What now?” I grumble.
“The couch,” Clark whispers from behind me.
I head back to the bar to get a drink while Cassie shows her the bedroom and bathroom. “What,” I say. “It’s a fucking couch.”
“Give her a break. It’s a couch on a plane,” Clark says. “You were probably impressed the first time you saw a couch on a plane, too.”
I frown. To be honest, I can barely remember. I was so caught up in a haze of anger and distress. Buying luxury things back then, it was just about punching my way out of the dark hole I grew up in, a fuck-you to the world for busting my balls nonstop. I never really enjoyed the stuff.
The staff goes back to their posts, and Tabitha and I take our seats across the table from Clark in the forward section, ready for takeoff.
Tabitha stares at me like she has an important communication.
“What?” I say.
She looks over to make sure Cassie isn’t near, and then she circles her pointer fingers around, indicating the plane, I suppose. She makes a face of shock, eyes and mouth open wide. When I don’t react, she opens her mouth even wider and jiggles her head around.
I simply stare. I refuse to reward her drama with a reply.
“Excited face,” she says.
“Could you not narrate your faces?”
“Fine,” she says. “A-plus. Is that better? Your plane gets an A-plus. It’s amazing, Rex.”
“I’m so relieved,” I say.
She buckles in as we taxi to the runway, not catching my sarcasm, or maybe ignoring it. “Here we go,” she says.
“Indeed,” I grumble, casting through Google trends.
“Don’t your electronics need to be in airplane mode?” she asks nervously. “We’re about to take off.”
I give her a look. “It’s my plane.”