“Love you, too,” I tell him, disconnecting the phone and then getting up and walking to my bedroom. The fucking house is bigger than I need, but it’s an investment. I walk up the stairs to my bedroom and head straight to my closet to change into my workout clothes. After I make my way down to the gym, I get on the treadmill while I wait for the trainer to get here.
Chapter Four
Jessica
Pictures and details are surfacing this morning of the “tour plane.” Sources say that no one knows anything except when to be at the airport.
“If you need anything while you are away, don’t be shy. Give me a call,” Stephanie says, and I roll my eyes. She just called to wish me luck, and I groaned. Literally. I’ve tried everything I could think of to get off this press tour, but she’s brushed me off, ignoring every excuse I’ve thrown at her.
“I need you to put someone else on this story,” I say, tossing the charger to the laptop on top of my luggage. I’m not ashamed to say that if this doesn’t work, begging may be my next plan of attack.
When Mary came over on Saturday—carrying no food, I might add—she did bring four bottles of wine. I want to say we didn’t finish them, and I also want to say I didn’t do an impromptu fashion show of outfits to bring with me. Now I’m nursing the hangover and groveling on the phone with my boss, along with the feeling of dread of spending a month away.
“No one else can do this story justice,” she says. “Who knows? You could break through and finally get the story of who Tyler Beckett really is.”
“I know exactly who Tyler Beckett is. He’s an asshole; a condescending asshole who doesn’t even want me on this press tour, I might add.” I walk into the bathroom and toss my toiletries into my bag. “I don’t even know where we are going. Do you know we aren’t given any information until we board the plane?”
“Jess, make the best of it,” she finally huffs out. “There are people dying to be on this exclusive opportunity. You are touring the world on someone else’s dime!” I don’t even bother answering her. It’s falling on deaf ears anyway.
“Okay, I have to go. We have to be at the airfield by three,” I say, looking over and seeing that it’s almost two. “My ride is expected to be here at two fifteen.”
“Stay in touch,” she says and disconnects.
“Stay in touch? I’ll fucking stay in touch,” I mumble to no one in particular. Walking to my closet, I grab my scarf off the rack and then the jean jacket. I look in the mirror and take in my outfit. My tight blue jeans mold me and are torn at the knees. I have a white cotton button-down short-sleeve shirt that is tucked into the front, displaying my Gucci belt. I grab my rose-colored Tory Birch sandals and slip my feet into them. Then I walk to my bed and finally close my extra-large suitcase. I huff, and my hair flies everywhere when I pick it up off the bed. Grabbing an elastic from my wrist, I tie my hair up on the top of my head in what I perceive as a cute, messy bun. However, with how I’m feeling right now, I’m pretty certain the bun is less messy and more on the struggle spectrum. I’m in a foul mood, though, so what do I care? The noise of my Tiffany bracelet hitting my watch further irritates my hangover.
My phone chirps at me, letting me know that my ride to my thirty-day incarceration is downstairs. I grab the laptop, tossing it into my large Louis Vuitton tote bag along with the two phones. I roll the luggage to the door, turning around to make sure everything is turned off and closed. I will be gone, but Mary said she will come by a couple of times a week to water my one plant and make sure everything is okay. I lock the door after me and break a sweat as I drag the oversized, overstuffed luggage down three flights of stairs. The driver just waves at me when I get near the car and pops open the trunk from inside the car. Opening the back door of the car, I toss my purse on the seat and turn around to wheel the luggage to the trunk, straining to put the bag in the rear. What the fuck is the purpose of my driver? Surely, he can’t just be a driver. Doesn’t he know that the chivalrous thing to do would be to get out and help me lift this damn gargantuan bag? I slam it down with purpose, so he knows I’m even more pissed than I was already as I make my way into the back seat. Grabbing my purse, I dig out the water bottle I tossed in there at the last minute and drink half the bottle without making small talk or eye contact. I want this asshole to know I mean business with my pissed-off-ness, anger-fueled hangover.
The car zigzags through traffic. Leaning back into the seat of the town car, I grab my phone and scroll through it. I open my texts to send Mary one last hail Mary, and even I’m giggling at that since her name is Mary.
Why am I doing this again?
She doesn’t take long to answer.
I woke up on my bathroom floor. You need to be more specific with this question.
I laugh, thinking about how I told her not to go home last night and to stay and sleep it off on my couch. But nope, she had to go home.
Why did I agree to go on this tour?
Because it’s your job?
I should quit.
But you like to sleep in a bed and have things like a cell phone and eat and drink all the wine.
This is true.
Hey, you just might be surprised. Tyler could maybe change your mind.
Umm, I’ve met him a bunch of times. There is no hope.
One can always have hope.
I put the phone away when I feel the car come to a stop, looking up to see we are at the airfield. Opening my door, I see that another car has arrived at the same time as me. I grab my bag and get out of the car, then place it on the ground as I lift the trunk lid and grab the bag. Even though I try not to fuck up his bumper, I honestly give zero fucks if I do since the driver couldn’t be bothered to help me. I move my foot right before the luggage hits the ground.
“I’m sure there is a weight limit on this plane. And I’m pretty sure, based on the sound that bag made when it hit the ground, you’ve exceeded your allotted luggage weight.” I hear from behind me, and I don’t even need to turn around to see who it is. I close my eyes and count to ten, not slow like I should, but fast, so fast that I’m not the least bit calm before I turn around and face my nemesis. Sure enough, there he is—the bane of my existence. I take him in, seeing his dark jeans resting low on his hips with a black belt holding them up. He’s tucked in his black long-sleeved V-neck sweater but only in the front. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, displaying his black Rolex watch. His gold-rimmed aviator glasses cover his dark blue eyes, and he has his black leather backpack slung over one shoulder, while he holds his jacket in the other.
“Thank you for being chivalrous and helping a lady out,” I tell him, grabbing Louis and putting it on top of the luggage to wheel it toward the plane.
He looks around, and I stop walking when he says, “I don’t see a lady anywhere around me.”