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My eyes met Reagan’s for a brief moment before I looked away. “The facts, January.”
“Right. Sorry. Anyway, their relationship imploded, and the actor actually threatened to quit the movie. Thalia and her husband are over it. So, Thalia packed Brantleigh off for a yoga retreat as punishment. She hopes that practicing mindfulness and drinking wheatgrass juice for the next ten days will help center him.” January hesitated. “Do we think Thalia knows what punishment means?”
I slumped in my seat and squeezed my eyes shut like I could block out the world. “What the hell is that going to do? He’s twenty-eight, for fuck’s sake.”
You couldn’t force maturity on a person, could you? Clearly, I was no parenting expert.
“When he gets back,” she went on, “Thalia’s forcing him to move out, and she’d like you to use your influence on him to, quote, help him find his path.”
“My influence. Right.” Any influence I might have had on my son had faded by the time he was a teenager. I’d tried to stay active in his life, to show him my business or, when he proved uninterested in that, to help him figure out what else he wanted to do. But time and again, he’d brushed me off, spending most of his time on the West Coast. I’d been busy with my second marriage, my ever-expanding business, my second divorce, and now… “I’ll take care of it,” I said wearily, though I didn’t have any more bright ideas about how to accomplish that than I’d ever had. “Anything else I should be aware of?”
“Not really. Layla’s admin emailed about getting a list of campgrounds where you plan to stop for scheduled overnights, but I refused. I envisioned her packing a suitcase and randomly showing up to meet you. Knock, knock, Thatcher. I brought you some germs.”
Across from me, Reagan laughed softly, and though I kept my eyes closed, my gut tightened in response. I understood all too well how you could risk your career for a guy. But unlike my son, I would not repeat my missteps.
“I’m sure they just want to arrange her travel so she can meet me when she’s feeling better,” I said.
January sniffed. “Well, company policy says she can’t travel until she’s symptom-free for forty-eight hours, and I can guarantee that won’t be happening for at least a week. I will come down there to douse her with hand sanitizer and banish her like a demon if she tries to meet you sooner.”
My lips twitched. “I already have a mother, January.”
“And you could learn a lot from her. Your mom wouldn’t go within ten feet of a germ, especially now that she’s recovering from her latest cosmetic procedure.”
“I’m glad one of us keeps up with her procedures,” I said dryly.
“Only because she called earlier, too. She said you haven’t RSVP’d for her birthday party.”
I sighed, still not opening my eyes. “My mother’s birthday is in October, and I already attended her party.”
“That was her Hamptons party. The one next week is with her Palm Springs friends. But you’re going to be in Colorado the day before, so I’m not sure how you’d get there…”
She didn’t say “…unless you flew,” but we both knew she was thinking it.
It wasn’t like I never flew. In my position, sometimes it was unavoidable, especially when handling complex international negotiations that required a personal touch. The question was whether a particular situation was worth enduring the abject terror and/or nausea that being that high above the earth would cause. When it was, I popped a high-octane sleeping pill before takeoff, sprawled on my bed in the corporate jet, and paid Robert, an ex-SEAL airline pilot with an unblemished safety record, an exorbitant amount of money to get me there and wake me up after landing. Usually, I made it off the plane before the medication made me vomit.
I shifted in my seat. “Tell her I won’t be able to attend, January, but please send her flowers. Gardenias are her favorite.”
“Got it.” She paused for a moment. “You still have that headache, don’t you? I can tell from your voice. Take more supplements, boss.”
“Will do.”
She snorted. “Which means you definitely won’t. But at least get a nap,” she said gently. “Everything will look better after you’ve rested.”
I highly doubted this. Sleep eluded me at the best of times, and nothing that had happened in the last twelve hours was going to improve my chances of catching it. But after disconnecting, I sat for another moment with my eyes closed, hoping I looked like I was deep in thought.
Christ, I really was tired. I didn’t want to open my eyes to the glaring overhead lights or go another three rounds with Reagan. The more provoking he was, the harder it was to remember why I couldn’t shut him up with my mouth on his, and I couldn’t afford to let him distract me.
On this thought, I cracked open my eyes at last, ready to put Reagan Wellbridge in his place once and for all…
But instead, I found myself blinking at the changes that occurred in the few minutes I’d been zoned out.
The bright overhead lights were off, replaced with the soft glow from the LED strips on the floor and the reflected glare from Reagan’s tablet. The challenging, sassy man I’d been expecting was gone, too; Reagan stared at his screen with total absorption, his body swaying slightly as the bus glided through highway traffic.
I cleared my throat.
Reagan glanced up and removed a pair of earbuds. “Hey. I was just checking my email. Layla asked me to brief you on your talking points for the speaking event at the Midwestern Textile Symposium. She also has a reporter who wants to shadow us at some point on the tour, and she’s hoping he’ll give us a featured article, but—” He broke off, his aquamarine eyes clouding with concern. “If you’re too tired for this, I can brief you in the morning.”
This seemed to be yet another version of Reagan—not the sexy submissive or the sassy, challenging opponent, but calm Reagan. Kind Reagan. Unfortunately, this version was just as compelling as the others.
