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Charlize
Owen has his own jet.
It’s as luxurious as what I saw of his home the other night.
He follows me onto the plane and as we step into the cabin, he puts his hand to the small of my back and says, “I have to make a call before we leave, but then I want to go over some things with you in the office.”
I look down the length of the plane, noting the doorways that lead into different sections. “You have an office in here?” I’m blown-away by that, but also finding it hard to focus due to his hand on my back.
“Yes. It’s through that first door. If you want to set yourself up in there, I’ll be in in a few minutes.”
When I travel, I fly in comfort, but I have never flown in this level of comfort.
I leave Owen and walk through the first section that has single armchairs on one side and a long sofa that runs down the other side with its back to the windows. The jet is made of plush creams with black accents. The carpet feels like I could sink into it. The space feels like I could stretch out and still never fill it. I never want to travel on a commercial plane again.
The office has a sofa down one side and a table on the other. Four people can sit at the table, and I set myself up there. I then investigate the rest of the plane, finding a bedroom in the last section with a double bed. It’s so spacious that there’s even a sitting area in one corner. The bathroom is in between the office and the bedroom.
Again, I never want to fly on anything but a private jet.
I set my laptop up at the table and get to work, checking emails and actioning the jobs that Tahlia and Jill have sent through. Owen takes longer than a few minutes to finish his call, joining me ten minutes later.
I glance up from my computer as he takes one of the seats across from me. He’s opted for casual attire today with beige chinos and a navy polo. Those chinos are a little too fitted to be worn during our ban period as far as I’m concerned. They attract way more of my attention than is appropriate. So much so, that when I finally drag my gaze to his face after he joins me, I find him watching me with heat.
Right.
Work.
Stat.
I look at my emails. “I’m all yours in a minute. I just have to finish something Jill’s asked me to do.”
“Take your time. I’ve got plenty I can be doing while I wait.”
The task Jill sent me takes longer than I thought it would. By the time I complete it, we’re in the air and Owen’s immersed in reading something on his laptop.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” I say.
We spend the next couple of hours talking about the conference and the people Owen will be meeting with. I’ve already researched all of this, but Owen gives me further insights that help prepare me better. He goes into detail about the outcomes he’s aiming for this week, and by the time he stops speaking so we can take a break, I feel like I know a whole new layer of him.
I see why Owen’s as successful as he is. Not only is he smart and strategic, he also appears to understand people. I already know he reads people well. The way he reads me and seems able to figure out how to go with my flow is proof of that. I imagine these skills help him in his business.
We break for half an hour to eat and stretch, and then spend half an hour going over tomorrow’s schedule. Owen has an early breakfast meeting at 6:30 a.m. before giving the opening keynote address at 8:30 a.m. After that, the day is packed with conference sessions, a lunchtime meeting, more sessions, a pre-dinner meeting, a cocktail party, and then dinner with some of the conference attendees.
After we discuss all this, I lean back in my seat feeling exhausted just at the thought of it and say, “I imagine you’ll be hitting the gym early.” I’m joking, of course. We won’t get to the hotel tonight until after midnight. Owen needs to sleep, not lift weights.
Owen doesn’t miss my teasing. His mouth pulls up in a smile. “I’ll be in there at five.”
I slow blink. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
He shakes his head and reaches for his glass of water. “No.”
I’m so relaxed that I momentarily forget I’m here for work. I stretch my legs out and lift them to rest on the seat next to him. As I do so, my ankle brushes Owen’s hand that’s resting on that seat.
I feel that touch deep inside, and I quickly pull my leg back.
Owen wraps his hand around my ankle and stops me. “Leave it up here.”
If I thought the mere brush of my skin against his was enough to start a fire, having his entire hand around my ankle might start an actual inferno.
