“Sofía,” he says once he’s calm, “it’s a fourteen-hour flight.” Whatever fight he reads on my face causes him to course correct, but not in my favor. “I’m the boss, and I officially declare no more business clothing.”
A stare down ensues, and to my surprise, he holds his ground, hands on his hips. My resolve wavers when I shift and the tag digs into my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
Fine, so it’s not comfortable, but I’m trying to prove to him I’m worth the salary he’s paying me. It’s obvious he realizes he’s winning, because his face splits into a giant grin and he pumps his fist in the air.
“That’s all I packed.” I sigh, dropping to the ground to work out the issue with my luggage. “And my bag is overweight.”
Jett crouches beside me as I examine my luggage. I unzip the side with items that won’t destroy me to get rid of, and rifle through my packing cubes.
“Oh, wow,” he whispers, poking the one that holds my pencil skirts. “We’re going to need to go shopping when we get to Sydney.”
My head snaps to him. “What? Why?”
“I never want to see you in any of this again. These outfits impact your work.”
“My work?”
“Yes. And since I’m the boss—”
“As you’ve reminded me,” I grumble, but he barrels onward.
“You won’t need them as long as you work with me,” he continues. “I won’t think less of you because you choose to wear clothing you’re comfortable in.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that, though he calls himself “the boss,” he always says he workswithpeople instead of saying people workforhim. It’s a minuscule difference in word choice but done so with intent.
“Got it?” He bumps my shoulder, and I nod. “Ditch your fancy clothes and put something in your carry-on to wear on the plane.”
I shove the matching baby-pink loungewear into my bag, and Jett lets himself loose, digging through my belongings.
Thank you, Charlie, for your sage wisdom ofnotpacking your vibrator.
At first, I thought she was crazy for offering the advice, but as Jett rakes through my clothing, she was thinking ten steps ahead of me.
“This can go,” he says, tossing my blazers and matching slacks over his shoulder and hitting me square in the chest. “And everything in this little container thing.”
He drops the packing cube that holds my skirts and blouses beside me. Seventy percent of the clothing I packed for the trip lies spread out in the middle of the airport for everyone to see. I dip my chin to hide the embarrassment flooding my cheeks, but Jett is undeterred and lifts another cube, this one without mesh.
“What’s in this? And can it go?”
The blood drains from my face. “That’s my underwear.”
A wave of pink tinges the apples of his cheeks, and he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Right. Better keep those.”
My undergarments are set to the side before he works through my bag of toiletries. I hold my breath, anticipating the commentabout overpacking or pointed questions on why I need all the skincare items.
It never comes.
There’s no judgment as Jett reconfigures my bag, only intense focus while he switches the direction of items so they fit properly.
I’ve been told I’m high maintenance, and at first, I didn’t realize it was a subtle jab Tommy would make when I was particular about something or steadfast in my opinion. It was acceptable when my hair was done and I wore fancy lingerie, but when it meant I took longer to get ready in the morning and liked things done a certain way, then it was a detriment to my personality.
I crouch down beside him to help rearrange my shoes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
This is not a great start to our trip, especially when it’s my job to have things handled. “We don’t apologize for things like this,” he states, “but you do have some explaining to do.” My red face mask appears in his grip. “What is this? Some sort of torture device?”
“It’s my red-light mask.” I snatch it from him as his lips tremble. “It’s part of my night routine. It helps to prevent aging.”
Jett laughs. “It’s doing its job well, then. Maybe I should give it a shot. It might make me as pretty as you are.”
