I pried open one eye to see Beth reaching across the aisle, digging for my purse, Chelsea’s booted heel catching her wrist and causing a shriek of pain.
“Before Riley shares all the juicy secrets about her night of passion, let me give you ladies the rundown on Mr. Brett Jacobs.” Jena’s voice crowed from behind me.
“I’m not sharing any juicy secrets,” I interjected. I pulled the purse out of reach, sandwiching it between my calves, and closed my eyes, feigning disinterest.
Jena didn’t pause, the trajectory of her voice indicating a rise in position, the blonde no doubt holding court and relishing every moment of it. “Brett Jacobs is listed on Betschart Yachts’ website as being a sales manager, his job description consists of ... well, he’s a salesman,” she finished plainly. “But of big-ticket items. Their cheapest yacht starts at ten million, which…” At her pause, there was a flutter of papers. Good God, the woman probably had a PowerPoint presentation at the ready. “Which, if I estimate just a percentage of commission, we’re talking six figures per boat.” There was an impressed hum of approval from the group, and I willed her to shut up. The plane moved forward, and some of my hair got caught in the fresh grip of her hand on my headrest. I winced, reaching a hand back and carefully pulled my ponytail free, the action discovering a wealth of knots and bumps along the top of my head. Great ... messy hair. Way to make a lasting impression.
“Married?” Megan piped up.
“According to the Florida Marriage Records, nope. That same database clears him, or any other Brett Jacobs, of any crimes, convictions, or warrants. He’s good.”
“He looks pretty old to have never been married.” That was Chelsea, the voice coming from my right.
“Well, I couldn’t find an exact age ... I couldn’t find much of anything, really. Riley?” Jena’s voice softened on my name, and I felt her hand lighten, the woman probably peering over me like a hungry bird to a worm. I let out a deep sigh that closely resembled a snore and hoped this conversation would end soon.
“Ms. Crawford, we’re up next for takeoff, please buckle.” I peeked out of the bottom of my eyelids at the pilot who glared at Jena as if she would actually listen. Shockingly, I felt my seat snap back into place as she huffed into her seat, the click of her belt reassuring me of at least a brief interlude of peace.
Minutes later, the plane vibrating with the force of our departure, we were airborne, and everyone’s conversations moved to other gossip. I kept my eyes closed, my mouth slightly ajar, and faked sleep until the moment we landed.
I didn’t know what to think about the man, his number, or our night. But I did—as I sat in my car in the airport parking lot, the radio gently playing, the girls leaving one-by-one from either side of me—pull out my phone and send a text message to the number on the paper.
We made it safely. I’m home now.
I hesitated before pressing SEND, not sure what else to say. I felt as if I should thank him … but for what? We had sex. Slept some. Screwed some more. He gave me breakfast. I ran out. Maybe I should thank him for breakfast. I typed the words, then deleted them, my cursor making a hurried backtrack over the letters. I pressed SEND before I could think about it anymore, then tossed my phone into the passenger seat and drove home. Halfway there, at a four-way stop in the middle of cornfields, I picked it back up. Read his response.
Sleep well beautiful. My bed feels empty.
My bed feels empty? What a random ass thing to say. I stared at the text. Random ass and impossible to respond to. I rolled down the window and had the strong urge to chuck the phone as far into the dried stalks as it would go. The other half of me wanted to preserve the screen under glass forever. I was a complete head case. I thought having sex would clear out the cobwebs and help me think. Instead, I couldn’t function, my brain and thought process tied into knots that spelled out Brett.
I rolled up the window, turned off the damn phone, and swore I’d stop thinking of him for the rest of the night. It wouldn’t lead to anything, I knew it. Maybe one more trip, one more stab to my heart before he disappeared forever. Nothing to get excited or vulnerable about. I was me and he was him and he’d forget about me by Monday. It had been a fun weekend but I’d probably never hear from him again.