waiting for you and your...guest...to board."
Mr. Sorrenson? I knew Shane was the CEO and co-founder of a company, but this man's deference surprised me. Shane seemed as irritated by it as I was surprised. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes, as if wondering if I'd noticed.
"I've told you, Bradley. Call me Shane. Mr. Sorrenson is my father."
"Certainly, sir—I mean, Shane," Bradley said. "Do you have any luggage, sir?"
Shane growled. "Quit calling me sir, goddamnit. And no, no luggage. Just the two bags."
I stifled a giggle.
"What's so damn funny?" He asked me.
"Nothing. Just you." I squeezed his arm.
"What about me?"
"Why don't you want him to call you Mr. Sorrenson? Or sir? He's just being respectful."
Shane snorted. "It's complicated. But he's not being respectful, he's being a suck up. I hate it."
He stomped up the steep, narrow steps into the interior of the jet, cutting off any other questions I might have directed at him. I followed him up and into the jet. Within less than a minute, Shane was sitting in a deep, tan leather lounge chair with his cell phone to his ear. He gestured with a thumb at the chair next to his and turned away. He was all business, and he had been ever since he got the phone call early yesterday morning. As soon as he got the call, he'd gone from being a sweet and attentive lover to a laser-focused businessman with little time or patience for anything but getting to the airport and onto our flight.
He'd gotten me a passport within hours, with a few phone calls, had arranged for my things to be picked up from John's house, boxed up and put into storage, and had whisked us away from his condo in a limousine.
Warning bells were going off in my head, especially now that I was sitting in the back of a private jet. The seats were upholstered in expensive-looking leather, and the back of each headrest was embroidered with an elaborate 'S' monogram.
'S' for Sorrenson?
I sat in the chair Shane had indicated, staring wide-eyed at the extravagance around me. There was a fully stocked bar along one wall and an enormous flat-screen TV on another. Through one open door I could see a bathroom nicer than the one in my parent's house, and through another a bedroom nearly as large as the one in my apartment.
After five minutes of barking orders into his phone, Shane hung up and turned to me.
"Ever flown private before?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I've never flown before, period."
"You've never been on an airplane? Like, not even to Florida?"
"Shane, I've never left Michigan. I went to Ontario once, with John, but that's it."
He lifted an eyebrow, a gesture which I had already learned could express more than a thousand words. "Well," he said, "you're in for a treat then."
I tried to formulate my question carefully. "Shane...this jet...it's yours? Your company's I mean?"
He shrugged. "It's my family's. My dad has...a lot of money. It's just easier to fly private, I've found."
"Who is your dad?"
Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, as if resigning to part with information he'd rather keep to himself. "Henry James Sorrenson."
Now that was a name I knew. His father was one of the wealthiest men in the country, a business mogul worth several billion dollars. His name wasn't in the news often, but John, being a banker, routinely read magazines and newspapers like The Wallstreet Journal and Forbes .
"So, you're—"
He cut me off, his words clipped and tense. "Just Shane. My father's business, my father's wealth has nothing to do with me."
"Shane, I—"
"Did you really not know who I was? Or were you just playing dumb?"
His ire was palpable. The sweet, caring, sensual man I'd met in the rain, riding a Harley, was gone.
"Why would I play dumb? How was I supposed to know who you were, or who your father is?"
"You'd be surprised. My family, my brothers...we tend to attract attention. Women know who we are, and they'll often do anything to get close to us, hoping—"
It was my
Mr. Sorrenson? I knew Shane was the CEO and co-founder of a company, but this man's deference surprised me. Shane seemed as irritated by it as I was surprised. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes, as if wondering if I'd noticed.
"I've told you, Bradley. Call me Shane. Mr. Sorrenson is my father."
"Certainly, sir—I mean, Shane," Bradley said. "Do you have any luggage, sir?"
Shane growled. "Quit calling me sir, goddamnit. And no, no luggage. Just the two bags."
I stifled a giggle.
"What's so damn funny?" He asked me.
"Nothing. Just you." I squeezed his arm.
"What about me?"
"Why don't you want him to call you Mr. Sorrenson? Or sir? He's just being respectful."
Shane snorted. "It's complicated. But he's not being respectful, he's being a suck up. I hate it."
He stomped up the steep, narrow steps into the interior of the jet, cutting off any other questions I might have directed at him. I followed him up and into the jet. Within less than a minute, Shane was sitting in a deep, tan leather lounge chair with his cell phone to his ear. He gestured with a thumb at the chair next to his and turned away. He was all business, and he had been ever since he got the phone call early yesterday morning. As soon as he got the call, he'd gone from being a sweet and attentive lover to a laser-focused businessman with little time or patience for anything but getting to the airport and onto our flight.
He'd gotten me a passport within hours, with a few phone calls, had arranged for my things to be picked up from John's house, boxed up and put into storage, and had whisked us away from his condo in a limousine.
Warning bells were going off in my head, especially now that I was sitting in the back of a private jet. The seats were upholstered in expensive-looking leather, and the back of each headrest was embroidered with an elaborate 'S' monogram.
'S' for Sorrenson?
I sat in the chair Shane had indicated, staring wide-eyed at the extravagance around me. There was a fully stocked bar along one wall and an enormous flat-screen TV on another. Through one open door I could see a bathroom nicer than the one in my parent's house, and through another a bedroom nearly as large as the one in my apartment.
After five minutes of barking orders into his phone, Shane hung up and turned to me.
"Ever flown private before?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I've never flown before, period."
"You've never been on an airplane? Like, not even to Florida?"
"Shane, I've never left Michigan. I went to Ontario once, with John, but that's it."
He lifted an eyebrow, a gesture which I had already learned could express more than a thousand words. "Well," he said, "you're in for a treat then."
I tried to formulate my question carefully. "Shane...this jet...it's yours? Your company's I mean?"
He shrugged. "It's my family's. My dad has...a lot of money. It's just easier to fly private, I've found."
"Who is your dad?"
Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, as if resigning to part with information he'd rather keep to himself. "Henry James Sorrenson."
Now that was a name I knew. His father was one of the wealthiest men in the country, a business mogul worth several billion dollars. His name wasn't in the news often, but John, being a banker, routinely read magazines and newspapers like The Wallstreet Journal and Forbes .
"So, you're—"
He cut me off, his words clipped and tense. "Just Shane. My father's business, my father's wealth has nothing to do with me."
"Shane, I—"
"Did you really not know who I was? Or were you just playing dumb?"
His ire was palpable. The sweet, caring, sensual man I'd met in the rain, riding a Harley, was gone.
"Why would I play dumb? How was I supposed to know who you were, or who your father is?"
"You'd be surprised. My family, my brothers...we tend to attract attention. Women know who we are, and they'll often do anything to get close to us, hoping—"
It was my
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