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I pick up her work phone to read the article she was referencing. Colombian tourism doesn’t interest me, but I need a distraction so I don’t stare at her too possessively while she’s on the phone. I never particularly liked Zane. He always checked out, so I chalked up my distaste being because of his rich, spoiled boy status. When the kid turned sixteen, his father bought him a red Ferrari. It’s as if good old dad wanted to ensure his son grew into an asshole of gargantuan proportions.
A text comes through on Sophia’s work phone from Gemma.
Gemma Toro:
How’s Damian? Want to meet us downstairs for breakfast?
The text is peppered with girlie emojis. I hold the phone screen up for Sophia to read. Her eyes flash with eagerness and excitement. I remember my first few CIA ops. I’d had that same fire. The same thrill at the promise of a mission.
“Zane, that all sounds fabulous. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run.” There’s a pause. “East Coast, remember? This is the middle of my workday.” She gives me an amused, slightly naughty smile, and I resist the urge to push the phone aside and claim those lips. “I promise, I’ll check the dates and get back to you.”
She clicks off the phone and swings her legs off the bed. “I’ve got to get a quick shower. Can you text Gemma back and ask if we can meet in thirty?”
“Thirty minutes. Copy that.” She opens the closet and flicks through hanging clothes while I fixate on her seductive backside. “What’s Zane up to?”
“He wants me to go to this thing with him. Just giving me some additional info. But I don’t know what I can commit to, you know?” She unfolds a sweater from a stack in the suitcase and holds it out, as if considering if it will do. “How do you make plans? I mean, I don’t know what country I’ll be in a month from now, and he thinks I work at a bank.”
“I don’t make commitments.” Those youthful blue eyes look straight into mine, and an understanding passes between us. This is the life we have chosen.
* * *
Fingers linked, Sophia and I weave through the lobby guests to the restaurant in the back. At the hostess stand, a bright-eyed young woman with her hair pulled back and a name tag that lists her home country as New Zealand greets us with a smile.
“Our friends might already be here,” I tell her. “The Toros?”
“Ah. Mr. And Mrs. Garcia?”
My gaze flits to Sophia, and the blooming warmth in my chest irritates me. Her hold on my hand tightens ever so slightly, and I wonder if she’s feeling it, too. We’ve crossed lines that place me on thin ice that I have insufficient experience navigating.
We follow the bouncy hostess to the back of the restaurant. The window we are seated by should offer an expansive view of the mountain range, but gray, foreboding clouds obscure the peaks.
After the women hug and all the cordial greetings are out of the way, Gemma points to the landscape. “Have you been checking the weather?”
Sophia answers with a slight shake of her head as she stirs her coffee.No, we’ve been busy doing other things.
“The system’s coming in faster than predicted. It’s hitting this evening. We were supposed to fly out in the morning, but we’re heading out after this.”
“After breakfast? Really?” Sophia picks up her phone and turns a concerned expression on me. “Do you think we should try to move up our flight?”
Rafael chuckles. “Good luck with that. You guys flew commercial?”
I grimace and nod. Sure, I’m playing the part, but after observing the ultra-wealthy for nearly eight years as an invisible worker bee in the background, I’ve grown to loathe the entitled, out-of-touch one-percenters. Or maybe it’s the point-two-percenters.
“Man, you gotta fly private. You’ll be stuck here for days.”
“Thank you,” Sophia gushes. “That’s what I’m always telling him. He thinks first is okay,” she flutters those eyelashes and touches my forearm, “but you know, first in the US is really just business. Growing up, we never had to fly commercial.”
I sip my water and look across the restaurant at the extensive buffet, pretending to be annoyed. And in truth, it’s not much of an act. She’s relayed the agreed-on backstory for her character, but there’s a lot of accuracy in it. The Sullivans don’t own just one private jet, they own multiples, plus two helicopters. She flew commercial from time to time, but only to fit in with her college friends, who were also privileged, just not of the same caliber as the Sullivans.
Rafael pushes back his sleeve and checks the time on a diamond rimmed gold Rolex. He juts his chin, gesturing to the bar area. “Let's get a drink.”
“Rafe, we have wait service,” Gemma says. She raises her hand and snaps her fingers.
“Baby, we’re going to give you two a few moments to talk about lady things.”
Gemma lets out an exaggerated, pouty sigh, and she flicks her long nails, dismissing us. “Go. Go. Go talk business.” Her emphasis on the last word amuses me. It also shows she’s excluded from even the most mundane of business discussions.
As Rafael and I push out our chairs to head to the bar, Gemma latches on to Sophia’s arm. “That’s fine, baby. I’m going to take this time to chat with my friend here about that gorgeous mink stole. We might even go buy it.”
