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“Pretty much,” Papa says, shrugging.
“I doubt he’d be trusting of me, Papa.”
“It’s not like you’re out for blood, Jenny. You’re nice and sociable,” he reassures, smiling sweetly. “Any other questions?”
With my eyes on the papers, I curtly answer, “No.” I pack the file case inside my bag and stand. “I’ll be departing tonight, if that’s okay.”
“That’s more than okay!” he booms, smiling proudly. “I’ll have the jet prepared for you. Just tell me when you’re ready to go.”
“Thank you, Papa. I’ll be back in no time,” I say, smiling as I go over to his seat to give him a hug.
Then I exit the museum in a hurry, my phone pressed to my ear as I contact Jonathan.
“Jonathan? Are you nearby?”
“Yes, miss! Do you need me to pick you and Mr. Allair up for dinner?”
“No, change of plans. I need you to immediately pack a bag for a week. We’re going to Italy.”
There’s a noise on his end, and I hold back my laughter.
“W-what about you, miss?” he asks eventually.
“Arrange for someone to send clothes that’ll last me a week. I have no time to go back to my apartment and pack,” I say, checking my watch.
“Of course, miss. Where do we rendezvous?”
“Come pick me up at the park after you’re done packing,” I reply, briskly walking to a bakery to buy two croissants. “Then we’ll immediately leave for the hangar.”
“Understood, miss. I’m on my way.”
“Thank you, Jonathan.”
I hang up, pay for the croissants, and walk to the park to study the information on Ren while I wait.
* * *
Once we getto the hangar, Papa’s trusted pilot is already waiting for us.
“Miss Allair! So good to see you!” Mr. Lavigne greets, kissing both sides of my cheeks. “I trust you two are ready for your trip tonight?” he asks me and Jonathan with an excited smile.
I nod, returning his grin. “Of course we are.” Then, not wanting to sound bossy, I ask in the most polite tone, “May we leave now?”
“Of course, miss. Right this way, if you please.” He leads us to the private jet that’s already prepared on the runway.
We climb up the steps and enter the cool aircraft. I settle on my favorite velvet seat, sighing as my head hits the plush couch. Jonathan takes the seat across from me after placing his bag on the overhead compartment, crossing his legs over his knees as he sinks into his seat.
To relieve some of my stress, I request a bottle of whatever available wine they have. A service crew approaches us, minutes after the plane takes off. He places two wine glasses down and begins to pour us the drink.
“Today’s selection is theCannonau di Sardegnafrom Sardinia,” he announces. “I hope it fits your taste.” He places the bottle down and leaves, telling us that he’ll be ready at the call whenever we need him.
“Well this is nice,” Jonathan remarks, already taking a sip of his wine. He swirls the drink inside the glass and proceeds to take another sip, nodding approvingly at the taste.
I reach out to take my glass and smell the drink. After swirling it a bit, I take a small sip. Contrary to what I’m used to, the sweet flavor of the wine surprises me but doesn’t excite me any further.
“French wine tastes better,” I mutter, diverting my attention from the wine to the clouds outside.
