Page 10 of Boss of the Year

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PÂTE BRISÉE

*if the butter doesn’t come from the freezer, it isn’t cold enough.

We didn’t chat the whole flight. There was a break for apetit dejeuner, which included a shockingly good croissant and a coffee. And another break for a light lunch.

Daniel did, however, talk for most of the time between the meals, regaling me with wild tales of his travels in between cocktails. Some were exaggerated, and others were outright lies. I happened to know that the year he claimed to have sailed from the Bahamas all the way to Portugal, he hadn’t even made it out of the harbor after failing his sailing tests. That summer, he spent lounging around the family’s Hamptons estate while I made his favorite curried egg salad every Tuesday.

But he was such a good storyteller, I found myself enjoying the stories anyway.

Besides, I was spinning my own yarn too. Mysterious first-class passenger who “knows” Daniel socially. Who was I to judge if he wanted to embellish to impress a pretty girl?

Because I was pretty. I knew that now. Daniel had said so, twice, including right before he dozed off and slumped over just enough to rest his head on my shoulder. Did my neck hurt from being frozen for forty-five minutes straight?

Yes.

Did I move?

Absolutely not.

The man smelled like orange blossom, gin, and heaven.

So, I could pretend that every time he said something like, “I know we’ve only met a few times, but I feel like I’ve known you for years,” my gut didn’t twist in on itself when he didn’t recognize the girl who had cleaned his room for three years and served his meals. I wasn’t about to spoil the longest conversation I’d ever had with Daniel Lyons with something as trivial as the truth.

He’d find that out soon enough. Our short-lived relationship would probably end after we deplaned and lost each other at baggage claim anyway.

Except it didn’t.

“There you are.”

I turned from where I was waiting next to the carousel to where Daniel had appeared on my left.

For approximately the ten thousandth time that day, I mentally thanked Louis for talking me into the palazzo pants and the cropped black sweater with the Peter Pan neckline. The outfit met my desire to keep relatively covered while revealing a slice of midriff that Daniel was eyeing like a wolf on the prowl.

He smiled hungrily. “Two questions, gorgeous: where exactly are you headed, and when do I see you again?”

When I didn’t respond immediately, his smile turned off-kilter. My heart skipped a beat. This was my favorite Daniel expression—the one where he wasn’t completely sure of himself but wanted to charm someone anyway.

“After all, I at least owe you a bed the next time I use you as a pillow.” One dark blond brow lifted with suggestion.

Wait. That was a come-on, right? Or was it?

Was he suggesting that we have sex? Or was he apologizing?

Was he equating sleeping on my shoulder to a sexual act?

Was that a good thing?

I had a feeling I was supposed to know…but I didn’t. Lipstick and a cute shirt hadn’t taught me anything about flirting with an expert like Daniel.

“Er, I’m going to New Rochelle.” I forced myself to turn back to the carousel and watch for the rest of my luggage.

I had one bag, but there had been no sign of the other two. Frankly, I didn’t want Daniel to see them. One was my brother’s beaten-up Marine-issued duffel that had literally been through a war and back, and the other was a cheap (and bright pink) suitcase that I’d bought on the street in the Nineteenth Arrondissement. The bags alone would give away the fact that I had no business in first class.

“No shit. That’s where I live. Talk about kismet, right?” Daniel winked, and it was like the whole of JFK baggage claim twinkled with him. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Er…” Another glance at the carousel told me the pink behemoth was on its way, but there was no way I was claiming it in front of him. “That’s all right. I have a car waiting for me.”