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Right after I cornered one of Eileen’s star-athlete cousins, threatening to inflict damage on his leg that would ruin his Premier League future.
Mom must know I’m seconds from losing my shit.
I stormed upstairs to my bedroom. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “What hotel is she staying at?”
“I don’t?—”
“Yes, you do. Enough with the bullshit. I know she pays you extra to book her personal travel arrangements.”
Natalie groaned. The woman was about as endearing as a head-sized hemorrhoid. “Fine. I’ll send you the hotel link.”
“Get my plane ready. I’m going there.”
It would take about 36 hours roundtrip on my private jet, which would leave me about two days to bargain with her then return to Farrow on time.
Cutting it tight, but it had to happen.
I’d started gathering luggage and the essentials for a speedy trip when I was met with unwelcome silence. My favorite sound, usually.
Unless it was accompanied by the feeling of premature defeat.
I stopped dead in front of my suit rack. “Natalie?”
“Uh…”
“Spit it out.”
“They took your plane.”
“THEY TOOK MY PLANE?”
“Yeah.” At least she had the manners to seem embarrassed by it. “They said you won’t need it.”
“Bold of them to make that assumption.”
I saw right through Mom’s plan. She wanted to ensure I had no way of reaching her, assuming I thought myself to be above commercial flights.
I lowered my phone, shooting a text.
Zach Sun:
Need a plane. ASAP.
Romeo Costa:
Dallas took mine.
Romeo Costa:
She and Frankie are on a cheese-tasting tour in Italy, courtesy of Constance.
Ollie vB:
Someone’s feeling charitable this Christmas…
