Page 57 of Bossy Bride: Emma and Jesse

We finish getting dressed and we’re just about to walk back out into Sven’s office when I point to the bathroom. “You might want to check your makeup, Ems. The wind kinda messed it up.”

“Oh, fuck it. I don’t care. It can wait until we get to the jet.”

As soon as we exit the dressing room Sven is on his feet with hands in the air. “I’m really sorry about the glitch up in the air. We’d like to make it up to you. No charge for this package. It’s on us. I’ve already called up Fingers and told him about the mix-up. He’s sending Vinnie over right now to make things right and get you another wedding set up pronto.”

“Forget it,” I say. “We’re done. We’ve got our own jet somewhere in this airport. We’re heading over there to wait for our pilot to show up.”

“But… Vinnie!” Sven calls after us.

We ignore him.

I hold the office door open for Emma and we saunter out to go find the Bright Berry Beach jet.

It takes a good while to find our way over to the charter area where they schedule flights in and out for private jets. And even though I know damn well that Jessica chick never came over here to find our charter, I keep my eyes peeled for her anyway. I’m really not in the mood to deal with the minions of Fingers. I just want to board Emma’s plane, relax in a soft leather chair, take a nap in the jet bedroom, and hopefully fuck my future wife.

But here’s the thing. When you walk into a jet club wearing pirate outfits, they tend to not take you seriously.

“I swear to God, I am Emma Dumas.”

The check-in woman eyeballs my almost-wife with suspicion. Pirate clothes aside, everything about us right now screams chaos. And she is having none of it.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m going to need some form of ID.” Her Southern accent sounds sweet, but it’s laced with disbelief.

“We lost our IDs at the Treasure Island pirate show. Why the hell else would we be dressed like pirates if we weren’t in the freaking show?”

“Ma’am, I understand what you’re saying. But people dress like pirates for all sorts of reasons. And regardless of what they are, we still require ID to gain access to the jets.”

“It’s my jet. I’m Emma Dumas. I’m one-fourth owner of Bright Berry Beach cosmetics. The freaking plane is black with ‘Bright Berry Beach’ written across the fuselage in screaming pink letters! It’s. My. Jet!”

“And yet,” the skeptical woman says, “you cannot prove that.”

“Just look me up online! And this”—Emma pushes me in front of her—“this is Jesse Boston! All you have to do is one internet search and you’ll see we’re telling the truth! Now search us!”

The woman blinks at Emma, then presses her lips together and begins typing on her computer. She looks at the screen. Then us. Then the screen again. Then us.

“Well?” Emma is out of patience.

“I see some resemblance.”

“Some—” Emma takes a deep breath. “Are you, or are you not, going to tell me where my freaking jet is located?”

“Fine. It’s in hangar seventeen C. But it’s not scheduled to fly out today, so there’s two other jets in front of it at the moment so—”

“We’re not leaving. We just want to go on board and wait for our butler to finish his poker game.”

“Then there you go. Hangar seventeen is right out those doors and to the left.” She flips her hand off towards the door.

“Thank you!” Emma exclaims. Then she sucks in a deep breath, takes my hand, and says, “Let’s go.”

I wait until we’re outside before I say, “God. I love it when you’re bossy.”

She shakes her head and huffs out a laugh. “Jesus Christ. This day is… just…”

“Yeah,” I agree. We need some jet time for sure.

Hangar seventeen isn’t just outside and to the left though. I mean, technically it is. But we have to weave our way through parked jets and other hangars before we finally find it almost a quarter mile away.

And that’s when we realize mistake number one.