Instead, he’s booked us first class on a jumbo jet. We have reclining seats and I’ve been given the one by the window. I am beyond thrilled with the accommodations.
Regardless of what Rebel’s salary is, it’s better than anything I could have afforded for myself. It’s an absolute treat...for someone who likes flying.
Despite the excellent service and the view, I am beyond terrified. I’d just as soon not look out the window because I’m pretty sure seeing the world hundreds of feet below me is not going to make me any more comfortable.
“How often do you fly?” I ask Rebel in a poor attempt to relax my racing heart.
He’s leafing through a magazine with a photograph of an ancient artifact on it. “A few times a month.”
Wow. “Do you ever get nervous?”
“What’s there to be nervous about? It’s the safest form of travel.”
He’s answering my questions so matter of fact, I wonder if he’s really even hearing me. It doesn’t matter anyway, I decide. I just know I need to keep talking or something bad is going to happen. Can hearts explode?
“You know that’s probably just a lie travel agencies tell to get more business. I mean, we’re hurdling through the sky in a giant tin can. If we go down, we’re dead.”
His black gaze flips up. He’s amused. “Are you scared, pussycat?”
I scoff. “What’s there to be scared of?” I ask sarcastically. “I mean, what are the chances one of the engines will blow up? And I’m sure they remembered to refuel before takeoff.” But what if they didn’t? Blood pounds in my ears and my breathing grows labored. How the hell long is this flight, and is it too late to get off? We’re soaring several thousand feet in the air, but I’m sure someone on board has a parachute in their carry-on.
“You won’t need a parachute,” Rebel assures me, and I realize that I’ve just said all of that out loud. Reaching into my lap, he gathers my hand in his. “If the plane crashes, I’m sure they’ll have enough safety vests to go around. If not, I don’t mind sharing.”
My eyes shoot open wide. “I forgot about drowning.”
He chuckles. I’m so glad he finds my terror entertaining. “We’re not flying over any bodies of water, and we’re not going to crash. Everything is going to be fine.”
Lifting his hand, he flags a stewardess down. “Can you bring us a couple glasses of something strong? My girlfriend’s nerves are shot.”
My jaw drops. Stunned by the label he’s given me, I almost miss the woman asking me if this is my first time flying. Too worked up to find my voice, I nod.
Once we’re alone again, Rebel catches the look on my face and says, “What?”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Don’t get too excited,” he says briskly, turning the page on his magazine over. “It’s just a label that makes for a smoother explanation.”
My expression falls and I slide my hand out from under his. A label? From fuck buddy to “label.” Not exactly an upgrade.
The stewardess is back in minutes, handing us a glass each of amber liquid. I’m impressed that she was able to peg Rebel so well. It’s exactly what he would have ordered. As for me, I’m more of a beer girl. I don’t attempt to hide my disappointment, though whether it’s due to the drink or Rebel’s comment, I don’t know.
“Drink. It will help you relax,” Rebel says gruffly. Placing two fingers on the bottom of my glass, he pushes it toward me. Holding his gaze, I down the scotch, hating the smooth burn that travels down my throat and into my chest.
With an approving smile, he returns to his magazine and sips at his own drink. Within minutes, I feel the weight of the alcohol spread to my limbs. Taking a risk, I rest my head lightly on Rebel’s shoulder. When he doesn’t reprimand or reject my advance, I increase the load until my head is fully supported. I may not like him much right now, but he makes a good pillow.
Closing my eyes, I consider for the hundredth time the wisdom of my decision to take this trip with him. Rebel and I are not a match made in heaven. He’s brash and condescending on a good day, and I’m...well, me. I’m a “label.” To be with him, it’s clear that I’m going to be giving up a lot of myself. Example number one: this trip.
I don’t know the first thing about Maine. I don’t know anything about where we’re going or where we’ll be staying. Rebel seems to enjoy keeping me in the dark, his need for control extending to all parts of his life. All I know is Rebel wanted me with him, and here I am. I’ve boarded a plane for this man. If I wasn’t certain before, I am now. I’m all in.
But the question still remains, is he?
NINETEEN
“I’m not dressed for this.”
A stretch limo picked us up at the airport and brought us here, to this lavish country estate. It’s disgustingly perfect from the outside. The lawn is such a bright green I suspect it’s been dyed. A rainbow of flowers lines the walkway and frame the u-shaped drive, standing out against the two story monstrosity that I’m fairly certain is a Martha’s Vineyard design. It’s classic, white, and reminds me of something I’d find overlooking a sandy beach.
“You’re dressed fine.” Rebel pushes me toward the house because my feet just won’t go on their own.
“You should have let me change into something nicer,” I say, worriedly tugging at my clearance rack blouse from K-Mart.
“Your clothes are fine,” Rebel insists as we climb the stone-faced steps. “Just smile and remember to be your charming self. I’m sure Jack has been fantasizing about you since the conference so I hardly think he’ll care about what you’re wearing.” He leans closer, his mouth hovering above mine. “He’ll be too preoccupied wondering what you look like under all that clothing.”
Smacking a kiss on my lips, he grabs the oiled-brass knocker and raps it against the paneled door.
“That didn’t make me feel any better,” I grumble. “Now I’m going to spend the whole day covering my ass.”
“You should be more worried about those tits. They’re practically asking for a tongue lashing.”
My mouth gapes open and while I hurriedly pull my blouse together to cover up the inch and a half of cleavage, he laughs.
The door opens to a man in a suit with slicked back hair and sharp features. His nose is stuck in the upright position and in a bored tone, he asks us to come inside and then guides us to wait in the receiving room.
Rebel takes a seat in one of the two club chairs while I inspect the pictures arranged on the mantel. There is a nice one of Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly dressed in matching polos and visors out on a putting green, their clubs slung over their shoulders. They look so happy, even I’m smiling.
“Do you want to get married?” I ask Rebel, turning my attention to an oriental blue and white floral patterned vase.
“Are you proposing?”
Casting a look over my shoulder, I cock a brow. “What do you think? No. I meant one day, do you think you’ll get married.”
He considers this. “I’ve always pictured living out my golden years with a harem of women.”
“You’re such a pig,” I comment, shaking my head. He would say that. The sad thing is I can totally see him in that setting. I doubt he’s ever had a shortage of women.
“What about you? Are you the fairytale ending type?”
Spotting a miniature wooden statue of an African lion sitting on what I think is called a sideboard I pick it up, tracing my finger over its soft lines. “I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”
“So you didn’t spend your childhood dressing up like a princess and dreaming of your prince charming?”
Placing the figurine back on the table, I cross the room and claim the stiff, Victorian couch across from him. Rebel’s eyes follow my every move with interest, lingering on my crossed legs. “I did, actually, until I grew up and realized that men like that don’t exist.”