Page 19 of The Girlfriend Goal
The flight to LAX should’ve been torture. Six hours in a metal tube with recycled air and the kind of turbulence that made even seasoned travelers grip their armrests. Instead, I spent the entire flight hyperaware of Rachel sleeping against my shoulder, her guard completely down for once.
It had taken her exactly fifteen minutes to pass out after takeoff.
One moment she was pretending to read some sports management textbook, the next she was using me as a pillow.
Her hair smelled like vanilla and something floral.
I'd been holding my breath for the last hour, terrified that moving would wake her and end this unexpected gift of trust.
"If you stare any harder, you might burn a hole through her head," Matt said from across the aisle, not bothering to lower his voice.
"Shut up," I hissed.
"I'm just saying, the flight attendant's asked you two times if you want a drink."
"I'm fine."
"You're whipped." He grinned. "It's pathetic, but cute."
"Says the guy who's been texting Jared nonstop since we boarded."
"We're coordinating." Matt's phone buzzed again. "He's very particular about travel snacks."
"You bought him airport candy."
"The wrong kind, apparently. Did you know there's a hierarchy of gummy bears? Because I do now."
Jared's voice drifted over from his window seat. "If you're going to mock my snack preferences, at least do it quietly. Some of us are trying to manifest good weather through meditation."
"Is that what you're calling your nap?"
"It's called visualization, Matthew. Very different from napping."
Their bickering continued, but I tuned it out, focused on the weight of Rachel against me.
She shifted slightly, burrowing closer, and my heart did something complicated in my chest. This was what I wanted—not just the physical closeness, but the trust it implied.
Rachel Fox, who planned every moment and controlled every variable, trusting me enough to fall asleep on my shoulder.
The descent into LAX woke her. She jerked upright, immediately putting distance between us, her walls slamming back into place so fast I could practically hear them.
"You were out cold," I said.
She touched her mouth. "Oh god, did I drool?"
"No. Though you did talk in your sleep."
Her face went pale. "What did I say?"
"Something about defensive formations and someone named Mr. Whiskers?"
"That's my childhood cat," she said, relaxing slightly. Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait. I don't talk in my sleep."
"Caught me." I grinned. "You were silent. Boring, really."
The plane touched down, jolting us back to reality. Reality being that we were about to spend four days with my father. My stomach twisted.
"You okay?" Rachel asked, catching something in my expression.
"Fine. Just preparing for Richard Fletcher in his natural habitat."
An hour later, after baggage claim and an Uber, we pulled up to the Malibu house.
"Holy shit," Jared breathed, his face pressed to the window. "Is that a helipad?"
The house sprawled across the cliff like it was showing off, all glass and steel and aggressive modern architecture. My childhood home had been cozy, warm. This monstrosity screamed new money and a mid-life crisis.
"Welcome to Fletcher Manor," I said dryly. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter."
The front door opened before we reached it. Richard Fletcher stood there in all his Hollywood agent glory—teeth too white, tan too perfect, smile too practiced.
"My son!" He pulled me into a hug that was more performance than affection. "And you brought friends. Fantastic."
His gaze swept over our group, dismissing Matt and Jared quickly before landing on Rachel. I watched his expression shift as he tried to figure out her angle.
"This is Rachel," I said, stepping slightly in front of her.
"Your girlfriend?" My father's grin widened. "About time. I was starting to worry."
"Project partner," Rachel corrected coolly. "We work together at the community center."
"Of course." But his tone suggested he didn't believe it. "Well, come in. Shiloh's dying to meet you all."