Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
He leaves the armrest free.
I smile slightly and hold on tight, bracing for pain.
But the pressure change doesn’t hit me as much like a plane crash to the face. I still end up clawing at the armrests until my fingers hurt, pinching my eyes shut.
The vise squeezing my skull only lets up once the wheels touch down on the runway and we start taxiing in.
My mouth feels sour, but I think I’ll make it to the terminal without showering Jet Daddy in my last meal.
I do go fuzzy and dark for a second, though.
Maybe more than a second—or is it a few minutes?
When I pry my eyes open again, people are disembarking and Jet Daddy is gone like a ghost that never existed.
Did I imagine him the whole time?
I smirk a bit to myself.
Never had a guy so eager to get away from me before, but I guess if I were him, I’d want to lurch away from the sick girl too.
Steeling my dizzy vision, I get my bag and stumble through the aisle and off the plane.
Until now, I thought I was okay, holding it together long enough to make it out on my own.
I was wrong.
Because the second the noisy terminal hits me in the face, the migraine gnawing at the back of my brain charges to the front again.
I make it out of the gate, swaying violently, bumping into people who shout their irritation as I weave through the crowd.
Then that red flood over my eyes becomes a drowning roar.
I’m blind.
Blind, fighting for breath, and going down.
My mind feels like it’s swirling down the drain as angry red fades to bitter black.
II
NO RAIN, NO FLOWERS
(AUGUST)
I have a big damn problem in my hands.
Literally.
Considering I made it exactly three steps toward Miss Lark just in time to catch her as she fainted, and now my arms are full of a soft young woman who isn’t able to move.
When the slender blonde introduced herself on our flight, I never expected to wind up in this predicament—even with her silly-ass attempts to distract me from my work.
She’s got my full attention now.
I don’t have time for flirtatious women. It’s nothing new to me, and all they do is break my focus.
Fate’s decided I don’t get a choice right now.
This girl—Elle Lark—is alarmingly light in my arms. Trim, pale, and tangled up in me like a tree branch.
Her wispy strawberry blonde hair floats over my arm, so light and fine it wants to defy gravity rather than falling down gracefully.
What the hell did she say her health issues were again?
Headaches?
She certainly feels fragile.
Blue veins glow against thin wrists. She’s long legs and not much else, a girlish frame that would make my gaze linger if she wasn’t out cold.
Before, I thought she was young—too young for my hungry eyes—but I realize now as I look at her face that it was simply her ivory color and smallness spinning that illusion.
For someone so pale, she’s surprisingly warm against me, a living sunspot draped against my arms and chest.
“Sir?”
Blinking, I look up.
I forgot we’re in the middle of a busy airline terminal, fainting girl or not.
People are staring at us like the slack-jawed paralyzed slugs they are.
Everyone except my driver and personal assistant, Merrick “Rick” Adams.
He looks at the girl. Looks at me. Looks back at the girl and steeples his fingers together.
Then he moves closer, wisely choosing not to comment, waiting for me to speak first.
“I’ve got her, Merrick.”
He offers me his usual gracious smile.
He’s a thin, lanky man who often reminds me of an overly friendly cat.
“So then,” Merrick says, “your luggage already arrived a day ahead, as planned, and it’s been transported to your residence. Will we be making any additional stops on the way to the office, considering the—the situation, sir?”
“Yes. Change of plans,” I say dryly, shifting the negligible weight in my arms so I can balance Miss Lark and the laptop bag slung over my shoulder. I nod at her carry-on, which is currently resting on the floor with its strap crumpled on top of it. “Would you?”
“Of course.”
He bends and scoops up the bag, then turns to lead me through the terminal, threading a path that avoids the thickest clusters of staring, muttering idiots.
Not an EMT in sight, of course.
Knowing how slow things move around here, it’s one of many reasons I decide to deal with Elle Lark myself.
That doesn’t stop people from looking, but I don’t have any time or fucks to care about gawkers.
Since I’m not an authorized care provider or emergency contact, I’ll have to deliver her into the hands of someone who knows her and her medical needs before being on my merry way.
Which is why I avoid the nosy TSA agents as well, brushing them off.
Her breathing is fine, at least.
She isn’t bruised or suffering a concussion, and I know it’s not diabetic shock, a heart attack, a stroke, a seizure, or anything requiring instant intervention.