Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I loved her completely.
She returned the love wildly.
This love was worth the unsaid truths.
The hidden lies.
Chapter 18
I knew the moment his cell rang, it's rattle against granite, that it brought trouble. I stepped to the island, flipped it over, and saw JILLIAN on the screen. Silencing the call, I returned to my celery sticks and listened to the static of Brant's shower. My bags sat by the door. Brant's were being packed as I chewed, the task handled by two girls who seem well versed in all things travel. I needed to borrow them for the next trip. Hell, with their level of efficiency, I should just move them into the guesthouse. They'd solve half of my organizational issues in a month.
I chewed as zippers sounded and drawers opened, then the two women wheeled a single suitcase by, polite smiles nodding my way. I let them out, returned to my chair, and heard the tone of a voicemail sound against the counter.
The damn woman called back within ten minutes at the inconvenient moment when Brant stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, an apple in hand. He stepped forward, picking up the phone. "Hey J."
His eyes caught mine and he pulled the phone away from his ear, pressed a button and the speakerphone came on, Jillian's reedy voice filling the kitchen.
"...maintenance crew has it now. They might need to order a part; they're running diagnostic tests now. But there's no way it is flight-worthy."
Bullshit. My eyes flicked to Brant's. He said nothing, rubbed his neck as he stared at the phone.
Her sigh crackled through the phone. "I'm sorry, Brant. I hate that this ruins your trip. The plane should be back in order in a few weeks. Maybe you guys can reschedule after Vision 5's launch."
"It's fine. Nothing you can do about it. I'm glad you caught us before we headed to the airport." He reached forward, took the phone off speakerphone, and ended the call with a few short words. Then he tossed the phone on the counter, glancing at me with a wry look. "Sorry babe."
I shrugged and squatted down to unzip my bag and unpack any liquid contents in excess of three ounces. "No big deal. I'll grab my laptop. See what flights are open."
He frowned. "Flights?"
I straightened. "Yeah. Commercial flights."
"I ... don't fly commercial."
I laughed as I rose to my feet. "What do you mean you don't fly commercial? Your body doesn't physically have the capabilities?"
His eyes hardened. "We'll just go another time."
"No." I stared him down. "You'll push it off and we'll never go. I've already set everything up for this trip. You and I have never gone away together. Something always comes up. We're going."
"Commercial." He said the word like it physically tasted bad on its way out of his mouth.
"Yes. First class. Toughen up." This was interesting. Five minutes earlier, I would have said Brant didn't have a snobby bone in his body. Didn't need any of the trappings of wealth and luxury that he spent all day ignoring. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he gripped all of this as tightly as I did. Maybe he'd be lost in a world that didn't include massages and concierges and enough money to last the rest of our lives. I opened my laptop and placed it on the counter. As I brought up flights to Belize, I cursed Jillian's hand in this. It takes a meddler to know a meddler, and I'd bet ten thousand bucks that there was nothing wrong with the BSX jet.
"This is bullshit."
"This is normal. Welcome to life." I stared at the back of a Hawaiian shirt, the tourist before us, one who misunderstood San Francisco weather when making his travel plans, anticipating a sunny climate in which sandals and short sleeves would be appropriate in April. I knew this information from his wife, a scrawny woman with sharp elbows and a voice that carried, a voice that had lectured him on his packing choices for the last twenty minutes. In that stretch of time, we had moved half of the distance toward the security gate. Twenty more minutes behind this couple. The flare of Brant's nostrils warned me he wasn't going to make it.
He wasn't handling this well. He'd balked at the long-term lot we left his Aston Martin in, not liking the looks of the parking attendants. He'd been less than crazy about wheeling his bag the half-mile stretch to the terminal. And he hadn't understood, upon our arrival at the Delta counter, that the line of bodies stretching through the space all belonged to people ahead of us in line.
I was sick of his bitching. Hell, maybe this was the reason Jillian didn't expect us to last. Maybe this was the deep, dark secret I had anticipated for the last nine months.