tossing it over my shoulder, cautious of her location the entire time.
Kenzie drops her hand to reveal the red spot on her forehead… God, are her eyes jade-colored? They are. They’re incredible. The light in my studio and at the restaurant must have muted their brilliance.
“I probably should have told you before you hired me that grace is something I do not possess,” she jokes.
I stiffen, making my tone serious. “But then I never would have hired you. I mean hell, you’re handling thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of sensitive equipment.”
Her gorgeous eyes widen, and I realize my sarcasm was not as evident to her as I hoped.
“I’m kidding,” I clarify.
“Oh,” she cracks an uneasy smile.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, you had me. You were a little too convincing.”
“Sometimes I forget exactly how dry my humor can be.”
She hesitates, studying me for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that.”
I’m staring at her. Stop staring at her. You’re her boss, I remind myself. Clearing my throat, I say “Well, they were just fueling up the jet and waiting on flight plan approval, so we should probably head on out to board.”
“Don’t I have to check my bag first?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s a chartered flight.”
“Oh,” she gasps, and it’s obvious this is a new experience for her. Sometimes I forget that the experiences I’ve had as a billionaire’s child aren’t the norm. Not that this flight will be anywhere near the extravagance my father’s private jets are.
“It’s not as exciting as you think. I carry so much equipment it’s cheaper to charter a flight sometimes.” I explain. “Also, I hate connecting flights when I have anything more than a carry-on. Inevitably, something never makes it to the destination.”
She’s watching me now, her eyebrows lifted, a slight smirk on her face, “I never said I thought it was exciting. You know, I have been on a plane before.”
“I’m sorry,” my voice is surprisingly high pitched. “I just thought you—”
She’s laughing at me now. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”
My cheeks burn and the drumming of my heart thumps in my ears. People don’t tease me. They call me sir. They ask for favors thinking I have the ear of my father, which I don’t. They want things from me. They don’t lightheartedly tease me.
I give her a tight smile and toss her bag over my shoulder.
“Seriously, I can get that,” she says in a panic, pulling the oversized duffle from my shoulder before I can react. It’s more than half her size, but she doesn’t seem to care.
I shrug and motioning toward a Starbucks I ask, “Coffee?”
She delivers a quizzical smile before nodding. Silence grows between us, and I want more than anything to fill it. I have never minded silence before, but for some reason, I feel compelled to not let it linger with her. Is this what it feels like to be nervous?
I attempt small talk, which I quickly figure out can be much worse than the silence.
We stand in line, and I remind myself not to stare too long at her. The silence is less awkward if I’m not caught staring. We order our drinks, and I begin to over scrutinize if I sounded ridiculous with my grande mocha, sugar-free syrup, coconut milk, no foam half-caf latte after she simply orders an Americano.
I let out a breath of relief when her phone buzzes and she lifts it to read a message. Her nose wrinkles briefly before the corners of her lips pull down into a frown. She quickly shoves the phone back into her pocket without responding to the message.
An urge builds deep inside the pit of my stomach. I can’t stop thinking that I should ask her if everything is all right. But I don’t. The man on the other side of the counter hands me my order; I notice my name is misspelled, as usual. I’m confident this is something they train their employees to do at all Starbucks.
“Umm …” she starts, then hesitates.
“What
Kenzie drops her hand to reveal the red spot on her forehead… God, are her eyes jade-colored? They are. They’re incredible. The light in my studio and at the restaurant must have muted their brilliance.
“I probably should have told you before you hired me that grace is something I do not possess,” she jokes.
I stiffen, making my tone serious. “But then I never would have hired you. I mean hell, you’re handling thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of sensitive equipment.”
Her gorgeous eyes widen, and I realize my sarcasm was not as evident to her as I hoped.
“I’m kidding,” I clarify.
“Oh,” she cracks an uneasy smile.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, you had me. You were a little too convincing.”
“Sometimes I forget exactly how dry my humor can be.”
She hesitates, studying me for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that.”
I’m staring at her. Stop staring at her. You’re her boss, I remind myself. Clearing my throat, I say “Well, they were just fueling up the jet and waiting on flight plan approval, so we should probably head on out to board.”
“Don’t I have to check my bag first?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s a chartered flight.”
“Oh,” she gasps, and it’s obvious this is a new experience for her. Sometimes I forget that the experiences I’ve had as a billionaire’s child aren’t the norm. Not that this flight will be anywhere near the extravagance my father’s private jets are.
“It’s not as exciting as you think. I carry so much equipment it’s cheaper to charter a flight sometimes.” I explain. “Also, I hate connecting flights when I have anything more than a carry-on. Inevitably, something never makes it to the destination.”
She’s watching me now, her eyebrows lifted, a slight smirk on her face, “I never said I thought it was exciting. You know, I have been on a plane before.”
“I’m sorry,” my voice is surprisingly high pitched. “I just thought you—”
She’s laughing at me now. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”
My cheeks burn and the drumming of my heart thumps in my ears. People don’t tease me. They call me sir. They ask for favors thinking I have the ear of my father, which I don’t. They want things from me. They don’t lightheartedly tease me.
I give her a tight smile and toss her bag over my shoulder.
“Seriously, I can get that,” she says in a panic, pulling the oversized duffle from my shoulder before I can react. It’s more than half her size, but she doesn’t seem to care.
I shrug and motioning toward a Starbucks I ask, “Coffee?”
She delivers a quizzical smile before nodding. Silence grows between us, and I want more than anything to fill it. I have never minded silence before, but for some reason, I feel compelled to not let it linger with her. Is this what it feels like to be nervous?
I attempt small talk, which I quickly figure out can be much worse than the silence.
We stand in line, and I remind myself not to stare too long at her. The silence is less awkward if I’m not caught staring. We order our drinks, and I begin to over scrutinize if I sounded ridiculous with my grande mocha, sugar-free syrup, coconut milk, no foam half-caf latte after she simply orders an Americano.
I let out a breath of relief when her phone buzzes and she lifts it to read a message. Her nose wrinkles briefly before the corners of her lips pull down into a frown. She quickly shoves the phone back into her pocket without responding to the message.
An urge builds deep inside the pit of my stomach. I can’t stop thinking that I should ask her if everything is all right. But I don’t. The man on the other side of the counter hands me my order; I notice my name is misspelled, as usual. I’m confident this is something they train their employees to do at all Starbucks.
“Umm …” she starts, then hesitates.
“What
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