Page 36 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

Rhett finally looked up from his phone, his dark eyes meeting mine with an expression that was decidedly cold. “Time will tell.”

The dismissive tone pissed me off. What was his problem?

He was acting like I was some kind of burden he had been forced to tolerate. I understood a lot of people believed I was the product of nepotism. But Rhett didn’t have a lot of room to talk. His mother might not be as successful as my father, but he was still born into the business.

“Do you want some coffee?” Conroy asked.

At least he had manners.

“No thank you. I’m already jumpy. And I don’t want to have to pee. You know coffee dehydrates you.”

Rhett was staring at me. I couldn’t believe I just said that out loud.

“And that’s why I don’t need coffee,” I muttered under my breath.

“Boarding for Flight 447 to Miami will begin in ten minutes,” came the announcement over the lounge’s speakers.

Saved by the loudspeaker.

We gathered our things and made our way to the gate. Simone was talking about the Miami restaurant and its celebrity chef owner while Conroy offered commentary about the city’s food scene. Rhett remained silent, checking his phone and responding to messages like the rest of us weren’t even there.

As we lined up to board, I had enough of his attitude. I reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him aside from the boarding line.

“What’s your problem?” I asked, not bothering to keep my voice down.

His eyebrows shot up, clearly not expecting the confrontation. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t treat me like this for the next three weeks,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady despite the anger bubbling up in my chest. “It’s not my fault that Conroy got hit by that cyclist. It’s not my fault that your perfectly planned tour got derailed on the first night. Conroy is obviously a talented chef but he’s not the only one that can chop veggies. Or make flavorful sauce. I’ve proven I can do it. Quit treating me like I’m some child that’s been thrust on you. Shit happened. I’m here. Deal with it. It’s not my fault things went sideways. You’re a chef. You should know shit happens all the time. You would think you were used to things going sideways.”

His expression darkened. “I never said it was your fault.”

“Then stop acting like it. You can either pout like a toddler because things didn’t go according to your precious schedule, or you can let me step up and do my best to help salvage this situation.” I crossed my arms, meeting his glare head on. “Maybe I’ll even surprise you.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other. I could see something behind those dark eyes. Was it respect? There was a hint of that guy I saw out on the bench.

But then his mask slipped back into place.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “But don’t expect me to hold your hand through every service.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back.

We boarded without saying another word to one another. I was grateful when I discovered that our first-class seats weren’t together. Rhett was across the aisle, while I was seated next to an elderly businessman who immediately put on noise-canceling headphones and closed his eyes. That was code for don’t talk to me.

Perfect. I could have my nervous breakdown in relative privacy.

As the plane began taxiing toward the runway, all my bravado from the confrontation with Rhett evaporated. My palms started sweating, my heart rate picked up, and I found myself gripping the armrests hard enough that my knuckles went white. Flying had always terrified me. There was just something about being trapped in a metal tube hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour while having absolutely no control over the situation that unnerved me.

My grandmother always said if God wanted her to fly, he would have given her wings.

I absolutely agreed with that sentiment.

I wasn’t going to get into the physics of it all, but it just didn’t seem possible for a massive hunk of metal and steel to fly. How did it defy gravity?

The engines roared to life as we gained speed down the runway. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to remember the breathing exercises Mom had taught me for managing anxiety. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. Repeat until the panic subsided.

Except it wasn’t subsiding. If anything, the sensation of leaving the ground made everything worse. My stomach dropped as we climbed, and I could feel that familiar cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.

“I thought you were good under pressure,” came a voice from beside me.