Page 15 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

Juliet

“Honey, you look like shit,” the man standing at the top of the plane says to me with a deep southern drawl. This must be one of Silas’ flight attendants.

I widen my eyes at him, then look around, certain he can’t be addressing me like that.

Sure enough, though, his eyes are sparkling right at me.

We’ve never met, but I’m the only one climbing up these stairs right now, and Silas is at least twenty yards behind me, just now exiting the SUV.

Plus, Si is definitely not looking like shit this morning.

Quite the opposite, actually. So that leaves only me.

And since everything about my last twenty-four hours has featured one ridiculous event after another, why not add this sassy attendant to the list?

I huff, looking up at him, ready to let him know why I look like shit, but when our eyes meet, I can’t help but break into an unexpected grin. He’s smiling right at me with one arm outstretched, his eyes dancing, like we’re already friends.

I give up. Everything about my life is completely absurd right now.

I shrug and keep climbing.

“You’re not wrong,” I announce when I reach the top, pushing tufts of hair back up toward my messy bun. “I really do look like shit.”

He puts his arm around my shoulders, wrapping me in an intimate side-hug, then starts leading me into the sleek charcoal tube that’s about to go hurtling down the runway.

“Well, who can blame you? And besides, that was just a little white lie to get you to smile. Break the ice. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, you and I. Figuratively and literally.”

He nudges me a little closer to him, then bumps me away with his hip. I feel my smile widen and give up any preconceived notion about how this flight was going to go, letting him lead me into the plane’s bougie interior.

He goes on as we walk. “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the world would kill to look as beautiful as you, even on a bad day, and the other point-one percent would just be lyin’ to themselves.

Besides, this type of trip here just doesn’t happen every day, honey!

So, we can’t be wastin’ any more time. I saw you debating whether or not to even hop in here for the last ten minutes, sitting in that car out there like that. ”

My ears redden.

“There’s a reason for that,” I start to tell him, but he interrupts as we pass the plane’s sleek galley kitchen.

“It’s because you didn’t know whether we’d be packin’ the good stuff here on this bird or not, am I right?” He winks at me. “Well, I can assure you we have everything on board you could possibly need. Including that tall drink of water I see coming up the steps behind you.”

The flight attendant has to stoop as we go through another doorway, but the aisle is wide enough for us to glide down together side by side.

I’ve never seen the inside of a private jet to be able to compare this to anything else, but this one seems particularly striking.

Everything inside is chiseled and sleek, similar to its owner and exterior.

The cupboards and floors are outlined in thick, polished wood accents.

Dim lighting and coffee-colored leather make the jet’s interior feel like a broody nightclub or whiskey bar, which doesn’t surprise me.

It’s all a little over the top, but undeniably masculine, kind of like Silas himself.

I reach out to touch one of the plushy seat’s headrests as we pass, wondering if it’s lined in cashmere.

“We’re gonna sit you right here, honey,” he tells me, patting my shoulder.

I slink down into an overstuffed chair that feels more like a cushy La-Z-Boy than an airplane seat.

If this whole thing wasn’t owned by Silas, I might never leave.

“My name is Andy. Now what can I get you? A shot of vodka? A chardonnay? All the above plus an Ambien?”

I laugh for the second time since meeting Andy. Of course, Silas would have a crew expecting to serve hard alcohol or sleeping pills with the rising sun.

“At eight thirty in the morning?” I ask, turning my cheek.

“Oh, excuse me, Miss, but I didn’t ask you the time!

” he trills, winking at me. “I asked you how stiff you want your drink! Mimosa? Straight champagne? We have enough liquor to kill a horse back here and I’ll keep you hydrated so it won’t hurt tomorrow.

Just tell me what you typically like and I’ll bring you somethin’ that suits.

Sweet? Savory? Did you want to remember the flight?

Or should we just get to work on making it as unmemorable as possible? ”

His smile widens.

Andy resembles a Ken doll, all muscles and taut tan skin, with a wide smile full of teeth as white as the snow. His short frosted hair stands up perfectly on the top of his head, thanks to a heavy helping of stiff hair gel.

I’m just about to tell him my order when Silas comes on board.

Seeing him move toward me down the long aisle makes me feel on edge all over again, as if all the oxygen got sucked right out the door behind him.

If only I could convince him to stay here in Boston while Andy and I travel to get the letters instead, I might actually enjoy myself.

“I’ll have a mimosa,” I say, eyeballing Silas while praying he chooses a seat further up the row. “If you have those.”

“Of course,” he says, beaming at me. Then he follows my narrowed eyes over to Silas and back to rest on my face again. “Anything else to make your flight more comfortable? A blanket? A noose?” He raises a brow.

“That’s it,” I tell him with a laugh. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’ll be right back with that. And what can I get for you, sir?”

Andy turns to Silas as he reaches the seat right across the aisle from mine.

Ugh .

“Just black coffee, Andy, thank you,” Silas says.

I’m a little jealous since I drained the nasty cup on the drive over, just to prove a point. But a mimosa sounds better right now anyway.

“How did things go in Tampa last week with your mom?” Silas asks.

Andy straddles the aisle, resting both forearms across one of the seat’s backs in front of us.

“Mama pulled through just fine. Thank you again for insisting that I take ol’ Gloria down there to be with her.

Appendicitis waits for no one, just like her doctor told me.

I wouldn’t have been down there in time to be with her when she woke up from surgery if you hadn’t insisted on it. Thank you again.”

“It was nothing,” Silas tells him, while pulling the seatbelt across his lap. “Glad she’s recovering alright.”

“Gloria?” I ask, confused. “Who’s ol’ Gloria?”

“That’s just what the crew has nicknamed this jet,” Silas says, smiling over at me before buckling his seatbelt.

Andy smiles at me warmly before adding, “After Gloria Estefan. This ol’ bird was just begging to be addressed properly.

” He grazes my shoulder with a squeeze before making his way down the aisle toward the service kitchenette at the front of the plane.

“And if you think ol’ Gloria is pretty, you should see the Queen B!

” he calls over his shoulder. “She’s gorgeous ! ”

“Queen B?” I ask Silas, grinning as Andy disappears into a kitchenette. “Do you name all your jets after music icons?”

“If it helps the crew get us from point A to point B safe and sound, then I don’t care what they call them,” he says, smirking. “This flight is only around seven hours so we’re taking this one. We’ll take Queen B on anything over that.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling surprised. I didn’t picture Silas having jets named after female pop stars, but I’m not totally surprised. The Si I knew back in college was always up for a good time, which I suppose hasn’t changed. “Seven hours to Switzerland?” I frown.

“Long enough to take a shower and a long nap, if you’d like.”

“Why, you think I need a shower?” I ask, preparing to be insulted, before realizing that he’s actually offering me a shower on an airplane .

“Wait, there’s a shower on this thing?” I dart my eyes around the jet, trying to picture it.

Of course he would have a shower on a plane.

“And you use it? Isn’t that dangerous? Like some mile-high shower club? That has to be slick.”

He laughs.

“Yes, I do use it, and you’re welcome to as well.

There’s a full bathroom in the back. No tub, sorry.

But I had it stocked with the same toiletries you’re used to, or at least .

. .” He trails off, looking like he wants to kick himself for speaking out of turn.

Then he clears his throat while I wait for him to finish explaining how he knows what type of shampoo I use.

“Or at least the same brands you used a year ago, back when . . .” He gives me a sad sort of half-smile, balling his fists on his thighs before flattening his palms against them again.

“How would you know what type of toiletries I used a year ago?” I ask, feeling a bit unnerved. Sure, we were practically roommates when Grant and I were dating so he would have maybe seen what my toiletries were at one point, but not recently.

“Grant left quite a few notes on things like that for me while planning,” he says, quietly. “To make sure you’d be comfortable.”

I close my eyes when it sinks in. Grant .

“Never mind. Forget I asked. I showered this morning, thanks. I know it probably doesn’t look like it anymore, but I’m good.”

Andy returns down the aisle with a coffee mug and a mimosa balanced on a little tray. From how light in color it is, I can tell he filled the glass mostly with champagne, adding the tiniest little splash of orange juice, just to fulfill the promise of a mimosa.

“Thank you,” I tell him when he hands me the champagne flute. I’ve never even flown first class, let alone had a whole private jet and staff almost entirely to myself.

“You let me know if that needs more juice,” Andy says before handing the steaming mug to Silas next. “Though I basically only spritzed the fizz with OJ. You don’t really need it when you’re drinking Dom.”