I follow his finger with my eyes and study them closely.
“Give me one of every kind,” I say. “A whole box.”
He quickly packages them up, and one closely resembles the pastry Sabrina munched on the day I met her.
“That’ll be thirty-five dollars,” the barista says.
I got almost a dozen pastries bigger than my hand and a large coffee for that much? No wonder this place reeks of sugar rather than being filled with the aroma of beans kissed by the Hawaiian trade winds and roasted to perfection.
Clearly, I need to train Miss Bristol’s palate.
“Tip yourself a hundred bucks and hurry up,” I tell him, tapping my foot impatiently as his eyes light up.
“Yes, sir!”
There isn’t much time, but I can’t resist one more stop at The Bean Bar for a carafe of real coffee—it’s too long of a flight for the instant stuff they keep on board—on my way to the airport. As usual, I’m still the first arrival.
I check in with the pilot, load my stuff on the sleek Gulfstream jet, and go stand on the tarmac.
Every now and then, I get a straggler, and I like to be calling or texting before we’re late. Ruby’s the next to arrive, as always. Her leopard print dress accents her usual good fashion sense today.
She runs a hand through her hair. “I still don’t see why HR needs to be here. Don’t you have a sales team to pitch for you?”
“Having you around keeps everyone on their toes.”
“Delightful. I love being the one everyone hates,” she huffs out.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I chuckle, leading her up the stairs and inside the plane, where I open the box waiting on the table. “It’s not you they hate. Care for a bear claw?”
She snatches one out with that huckleberry filling. Her first bite leaves her a little more at ease.
“Believe me, I know. Your name comes up in an HR grievance at least once a month. But I can’t fire the majority owner and CEO, so you’re safe. As much as I’d love to stand here and chat, you know my limits, Mag. I’m finding an overstuffed seat. Wake me up when we’re in L.A.”
“Go on.” I nod at her.
Hugo, Angie, and Dave, the Sales Director, carpool. I watch them arrive, back on the tarmac again, enjoying the bustle of planes taking off. I’ve always had a thing for aviation.
I’m about to call Armstrong to find out if my new EA made everyone else late when the black town car pulls up. Sabrina jumps out behind a few other designers. She’s wearing blue sweats, a pink tank top, and flip-flops with a lavender overnight bag.
“You’re wearing sweats to a business meeting for a fashion brand?” I ask.
“I love finding out I’m working at four a.m. on Saturday morning after eleven on Friday night as much as any gal, so yeah. That a problem, Mr. Heron? I’m going to wear clothes I can actually sleep in until right before we land, then I’ll change. Or do I need permission for that, too?”
Her claws are out today for good reason.
I offer her a real smile, for once, shaking my head.
“Your call, Miss Bristol. I have nothing pressing for the flight.”
Still, who wastes a four-hour flight sleeping? I couldn’t do it if I tried.
She nods. “Shouldn’t we get moving? What time does the flight leave?”
“The plane is right behind us. Get in. You’ll sit at the front of the plane with me.” I use my thumb to motion to the jet behind us.
“That’s the plane?” Her eyebrow goes up. “But we have to go through security, don’t we?”
“I see this is your first time on a private jet.” I smile. “Because it’s our plane, we just check in with the pilot. Already done.”
She grins, rubbing her eyes. “So we don’t have to do the whole barefoot cattle thing?”
I laugh at her word choice.
“Not today. Or ever, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Thank God!” She jumps and almost drops the overnight bag, but catches it before it slaps the ground.
Then, before I know what’s happening, her little arms are around me, squeezing for dear life.
We share this awkward smile before her face heats and she melts away.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I couldn’t help it.”
I try like hell not to register how good her hands felt pressed to my back.
Fuck.
Then as she turns, I watch her take a step, still struggling with the bag as her laptop strap swings back and forth on her neck. I move so I’m right beside her, slip my hand under the straps, and lift the overnight bag away.
“I’ve got it.”
Just like that, I’m carrying my assistant’s bag on board as we head up the rollaway stairs.
Ironic.
She sits beside me in case anything critical comes up. I get the feeling she doesn’t fly much, even commercial, so I give her the window seat.