Page 51 of Rafe

Thirty minutes into the flight and Skylar imagined her luck was indeed getting better. With a cozy blanket draped over her legs, she warmed her hands around her oversized ceramic mug. Her body molded to the crushed leather seat. Sleek and modern, the private jet had been decorated in tones of cream with walnut accents. Luxury without trying, its cashmere interior hinted at its expense. Money. Old money.

She glanced at Sebastian who typed furiously at his keyboard. She guessed his age to be late thirties, perhaps a few years older. With well-coiffed blond hair and blue eyes, his chiseled jaw couldn’t hide itself beneath the stubble. Though he spoke with a British accent, she detected slips of another dialect she didn’t recognize.

People would think she was crazy for jumping on the first flight out of Vegas with a stranger she’d met at a gas station. But given the situation with her credit card, her executive decision to get out of town as quickly as possible seemed the most rational thing she’d done in days.

Skylar’s mind drifted back to Rafe. Her heartbreak morphed into resentment, anger. She told herself she’d made the right decision, leaving without talking to him. To continue seeing him was a recipe for disaster. She didn’t owe him an explanation after he’d chosen to lie.

“You okay?” Sebastian looked up from his laptop and shot her a smile.

“Yes,” she lied as she brought her mug to her lips. “Thank you. This is amazing.”

Skylar tried to get a better read on Sebastian. While he played the good Samaritan, he surely was a man. In any other situation, she might even make a play at him. Not today though. Fucking Rafe. Ruined her for any other. At least until her fragile human heart rallied.

Shelby, a petite brunette flight attendant dressed in a well fitted, black silk suit appeared, offering Sebastian a mug. Her hair had been swept up in a proper French twist. She wore a crimson silk scarf around her neck and pearl earrings. Her ruby red lips had lost a hint of their earlier shiny appearance, but her perfect makeup was otherwise intact.

She turned to address Skylar, but Sebastian interrupted. “Please have something to eat.”

“May I recommend the omelet? Chef has imported black winter truffles. Périgord region.”

“I don’t know.” Skylar gave a nervous laugh as her stomach rumbled and she changed her mind. “Yes, I’d love the eggs. Thank you.”

Skylar turned to Sebastian as Shelby turned to leave. “Aren’t you having something?”

“No, I’m on a special diet, I’m afraid,” he replied.

“Oh wow. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Coffee is fine for right now. I’ll be having a meal shortly after we land.”

“Of course.” Skylar smiled at him as he raised his mug and sipped what she classed as ridiculously expensive coffee.

She studied Sebastian as he worked. He spoke with an unbothered air of luxury, a silent charisma lurked beneath his smile. Though he appeared outwardly harmless, Skylar thought better of it. Men who owned private jets, especially one who imported truffles from France when he clearly didn’t eat them, wielded power. So while the lull of his accent appeared to calm her nerves, instinct warned her to be cautious.

The flight attended returned and dressed Skylar’s table with a tablecloth and silverware. She draped a crisp linen napkin over her lap and scuttled off down the aisle in her black patent pumps.

Sebastian closed his laptop and swiveled his chair to face hers. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

“I didn’t say I was in danger.” Her face remained impassive, unwilling to share details of Vegas with anyone let alone someone she just met.

“Forgive me. It’s just that sometimes I have a sense about people.” He steepled his fingers, his gaze solely on hers.

“My mom has a lot of sayings,” she countered. “One of them is don’t beg for trouble. So, let’s just say I’m choosing to move on. Sometimes moving on is the best option.”

Skylar glanced at the monogram on the cuff of his white bespoke shirt. S. Dripping with money, the man knew how to dress well. Yet despite his custom clothing and fine leather shoes, something rough lingered underneath the surface of his words.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I own a bookstore in New Orleans. But I also act sometimes. I had a job on a TV series.”

“Girls weekend in Vegas?” he probed.

“I wish. No, I was working. But I’m done now. And I’m looking forward to seeing my family in Washington. Then I’ll head back to New Orleans.”

“Sorry about the acting job. Hollywood can be ruthless.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” She caught sight of the flight attendant approaching with a silver domed plate. “And you? I mean besides your new ride share business, what kind of work do you do?”

Shelby stepped between them and placed the plate onto her table. She removed its cloche, exposing a delectable breakfast fit for a queen.