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She’s shivering in the jet’s frigid air conditioning.
I try not to notice, but the more she trembles, I can’t fucking help it.
One more reason to hate her for making me care.
But hate is the last thing I’m feeling as the meeting breaks up early.
After we’ve dispersed to our preferred corners to get some rest before the plane lands, I move.
I steal a blanket and pillow from the storage area in the back.
No one’s paying attention to me. Not when they’re busy dozing themselves or playing catchup on their laptops.
They have no reason to assume the blanket and pillow aren’t for me.
Even if they wondered, I don’t care.
I beeline it for my usual seat and don’t hesitate before tucking the blanket around Callie and gently nudging the pillow beneath her head.
She doesn’t move, just gives a sleepy whimper.
She really is out cold.
Sighing, I sink down in my seat, propping my laptop up on my knees.
I’m glued to her, lingering on the copper-and-black curve of her lashes, glittering like fine-spun metal against her cheeks.
She’s too complicated.
Too colorful.
Too much.
This woman might just scramble my life if I give her half a chance.
I glance up as one of the flight attendants walks past, checking on everyone.
Gesturing, I request a chai in an insulated cup and a coffee with as much sugar as it’ll take without turning into diabetic shock thicker than mud.
My staff whisper behind my back all the time about how I take my coffee—a few of them think I’m part hummingbird—and I couldn’t care less.
I need the kick more than ever today.
Caffeine and sugar keep my brain riveted where I want it. Not on this sanity-destroying woman sleeping at my side with her mouth open.
She must snore for sure.
She probably damn well drools in her sleep.
Somehow, that does nothing to beat down the angry hard-on pulling at my trousers.
As the drinks arrive, I sink further in my seat, focusing on new audience engagement models to help retain our readership. It’s fascinating, offering insights that could shape our digital performance for years to come.
It’s just not fascinating enough.
It goes in one eyeball and out the other.
My brain is Swiss fucking cheese, and I’ve got the world’s most annoying mouse to thank for that.
My focus is gone every time Callie mumbles in her sleep.
Barely a murmur, but there’s no ignoring what she says.
“Stupid, stupid man,” she sighs, her words slurred and almost inaudible. “Oh, God. You’re so...dumb. Y-you and your vests. Stupid.”
Fuck.
There’s no mistaking who’s in her dreams.
I have to hide the smile that lights up my face behind a hand rubbing my cheek. I can’t risk anyone seeing me happy, seeing me getting ideas.
I do wonder what she’s dreaming that involves my vests, though.
Shaking my head, I slurp my coffee and glance at her again before looking back to my screen. One thing I have to give Callie is that she’s never afraid to call me on my shit.
I’ve missed that for so long without even realizing it.
Because once upon a time, someone else pelted me with honesty that made me a better man.
His name was Barrett Osprey.
* * *
Years Ago
It’s official.
I’m going to kill my little shit of a brother.
Free tickets to a live show with front-row seats don’t make up for this.
Yes, tickets. Two. Even though I only needed one.
Which is likely why I’m scowling at him over the subject of this song which is about as subtle as a brick to the face.
He calls it “Suit of Armor.”
Barry’s always been insanely good at slinging out rock ballads, the kind that shake the house down.
This one’s a slow song, though, a new number debuting at the end of his set, and it has a not-so-secret meaning.
It tells the story of a corporate workaholic whose three-piece suits are his suit of armor, protecting him from women, from love, from ever getting hurt.
Ha ha, Barrett.
You’re a very funny man.
I’d like a word with your muse later, little brother.
I can’t believe I skipped finishing the revenue reports at The Chicago Tea for this.
Ever since our father handed off his empire to me, I’ve been trying to figure out how to get our revenue numbers up when the content is, frankly, lacking. It’s stuffy and bland with a limited audience in the over-fifty set. Not remotely competitive in this market.
Also, I don’t have time for a frenzied love life when I’m basically married to our father’s legacy.
Hell, sometimes it’s a better high than sex to watch those subscriber numbers climb exponentially.
Only my dear brother could turn that into a song.
The crowd seems to love it, though. They lean forward in their chairs, their expressions smiling and spellbound.
Barrett’s always had a different magic than any I’ll ever know.
He’s a human magnet.
He draws people to him and his music. Sometimes I like to think he got enough brightness to make up for my shadow, and he’ll live his life twice as happily as I ever could.
