For me, it’s a Tuesday.
She looks at the papers in front of her and then back up at me. “Are we leaving now?”
“Yep.” I stand from the desk and walk toward the stairwell. No reason to pretend the elevator doesn’t bother me when she’s around and already knows it does. “You coming?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I didn’t pack,” she responds, still in the same place I left her, still staring at the mess in front of her before she starts to clean up and stand.
“You don’t need to.” My feet hit the steps, and then I hear hers echoing on the concrete to catch up to me.
“What do you mean, I don’t need to?”
“We aren’t staying overnight,” I inform her.
The sound of her heels hitting the floor stops, meaning she is no longer moving. I wait for her to speak, knowing full well she will.
“I don’t understand,” she finally says.
“What’s there not to understand? We are flying in and then flying out.”
“How?”
“On a plane,” I deadpan.
“Har. Har. Har. Obviously on a plane, but—”
“On my plane, Skye.” I look over my shoulder. “We are flying on my private jet to Miami, and then we will fly back home.”
Again, with the shocked face, mouth open, eyes wide. Yep . . . that look does it for me.
“Oh.” That is all she has to say, so I turn back and start to head down to the basement level where my men are.
This is the first time she takes the stairs, and from this vantage point, you can see each floor as you pass it.
When we are down one, I can hear her gasp when she sees that this section looks nothing like the office where she usually meets me. This is where my gym is.
“You have a gym.”
“Yes.”
“Do you live here?”
Again, I stop and look at her. “Sometimes, but it’s best that no one knows that. Do you understand?”
She nods her head. “I can’t talk about anything you say to me anyway. You know that.”
“I don’t even want your boss knowing.”
“Okay.” She’s quiet as we continue down another flight. Now, on the second level, she sees the security floor. Well, one of the two.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“This is pretty insane.” She sounds bewildered, and it’s cute.
I shrug.
It is. Jaxson Price built it for me. This shit rivals the security of the Pentagon. Actually, it’s better than theirs. He hacks them weekly for fun.
When we finally make it to the basement, she asks the question I know she’s been dying to ask since she saw the gym.
She’s looking around like a kid in a candy store. “Where do you sleep?”
“There is another level.”
“Where? Your office is the top level . . .” she trails off as I incline my head. “Ohhh, it’s not. There’s another floor?”
“There is. But again . . .” I give her a knowing look.
“Yep. Got it. I’m not dumb.”
“We’re taking the Escalade.” I point at a line of cars in the garage.
This is the one we take on longer trips. It’s larger, more comfortable, and, like the Range Rover, bulletproof.
“You have a lot of cars.”
“I’m a collector.”
“I can see that. Anything else you collect?”
“Souls.”
She laughs a nervous laugh, but I’m not joking. I do. And hers, I’m still debating on.
Opening the door for her, she shuffles in. I sit beside her, and we are off. Heading out of the city and toward Teterboro Airport.
Before long, we pull up to the private hangar that I own. It’s listed under one of the many private corporations, where my name is nowhere on the manifesto. Security is always present here for my plane as well.
Some might think I’m paranoid, but my father’s enemy killed him. In my belief, you can never be too careful. Also, this is why I can’t just kidnap Felix. He’s a paranoid motherfucker as well.
The car rolls to the runway.
“You can drive on the runway?” Shock fills Skye’s voice.
“I can.”
“And if you have luggage? What about TSA? Security? ID?”
I shake my head. “We don’t have to do that.” I put the car in park and round the passenger side, opening her door. “Come on.”
She’s still stuck on her earlier questions as she follows me to my Gulfstream. “Wow. Really?”
“Yes, really. Come on, Skye. Believe it or not, we do have to get going.”
She hesitates, blinking with bafflement, before looking at me. Really looking at me. We’re close together, my body practically caging hers against the railing of the staircase leading to the plane.
Yes, I’m turned on.
And no, I shouldn’t be.
She knows it, too.
A devious glint graces her eyes for half a second before she smooths it over, passing by me—but not before her eyes dip to my slacks, and she asks, “Are you sure you don’t have to use the bathroom first? I know you find it hard to wait . . . ”