“You’ve already tackled me and destroyed my shirt,” he says, deadpan. “Might as well finish the flight together.”
I slide into the seat.
I don’t know what caused the sudden shift in Mr. Icy’s demeanor. And frankly I don’t care.
Because as I sink into the plush seat beside him, my shoulders drop for the first time in days. It’s the first time in six months I’ve felt something other than bone-tired.
And that?
That feels worth the risk.
2
HOW TO WEAR TOMATO JUICE (AND OTHER WARDROBE MALFUNCTIONS)
VICTOR
Three days ago, my lawyer called to inform me that my company’s acquisition terms needed revisiting.
Two days ago, my brother Alexei left me a voicemail. The first time he's attempted contact in three years. I deleted it without listening.
Yesterday, my publicist Rachel threatened to quit unless I "stop being such a colossal asshole to the press."
And today? Today I'm wearing tomato juice.
I rub my temples.
This is what I get for flying commercial.
My buddy Christian offered me the jet. Again. I declined. Again.
Because I am not my father. Or fucking Alexei.
Because though the company I own technically has one, private jets reek of ego and corruption and gold-plated faucets. And because somewhere in the annals of my moral framework, I decided my company StreamEats would rise without pretense—even if it meant flying on a commercial flight and getting tomato-juiced by a rogue passenger.
My dry-cleaner is going to have questions.
And I decidedly am going to have Scotch as recompense.
"I really am sorry," the brunette sitting beside me says again, fidgeting with the baby wipe in her hand. "I genuinely thought I could catch it. I played volleyball in high school. JV. Obviously not well."
I glance down at my ruined Armani shirt now sporting what looks like a Jackson Pollock interpretation.
"It's fine," I lie.
"It's really not." She's still clutching the baby wipe. "But I appreciate the gentlemanly deflection."
I unbutton my suit jacket and drape it over the seat divider, then start working on my shirt cuffs. The juice has soaked through to my forearms, sticky and uncomfortably warm.
She watches me roll up my sleeves, her eyes tracking the movement.
"So," she exhales. "Business or pleasure?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Vegas. Are you going for business or pleasure?" She pauses. "Please don't say pleasure. You're wearing a suit to Vegas. That screams 'mandatory conference' or 'witness protection.'"
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, thinking about the company I’ve built—a food media conglomerate, really.
