The Boss hole (An Enemies To Lovers Romance)

I tried to discreetly shift in my seat as the growing pressure between my legs became uncomfortable. This fucking woman. I’d planned to work on my phone for the full flight, but I was starting to wonder if I’d even be able to think about anything except who was sitting next to me.

Thankfully, old habits died hard, and I managed to get myself sucked into the task of going through my emails and attacking the problems they held.

When the plane’s engines fired up for the takeoff procedure, I noticed Jules stopped scrolling on her phone. She was frozen there, apparently trying to look like she was working.

I waited a little while, then looked over to her. “Something wrong?”

“Nope,” she said. “All good.” Except when she lifted her finger to open an email, her hand was shaking.

I sighed. The smart thing to do would be to let her tough it out. The worst that was going to happen would be she’d throw up. She wasn’t going to suffer any actual harm, but... Dammit.

“Look,” I said. “If you’re scared of flying, you’ve got to distract yourself.”

She glanced over towards me, and she was comically tense. Her fingertips had gone white with how tight she was squeezing her phone. “Who said I’m scared of flying?”

I put my hand on her wrist and got her to let go of the phone. She seemed happy to be gripping the arm rests instead. “The fact that you look like you’re sitting on one of those cheap vibrating beds they used to have in motels.”

She gave a fleeting smile. “I’m just cold. That’s all. And those eggs.”

She was full of something, but it wasn’t eggs. “Try imagining all the successful takeoffs that happen every day,” I suggested.

She swallowed, then sank into her seat a little lower. “I just pictured a seagull flying into our engine and us all dying in a huge fireball.”

“Good news. We’re in Asheville and we’re two-hundred and fifty miles from the ocean. I think it’s much more likely to be something like a heron or a hawk flying into the engines.”

“A hawk wouldn’t fly into an engine. They’re too smart.”

“I don’t think any birds try to fly into engines. They’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Jules turned to look at me in disbelief. “Are you trying to help me or convince me that a bird is going to blow our engines up?”

“Okay,” I said. “Just breathe. Let it all out and count to eight. Then breathe in for four seconds. Then hold your breath for four and do it all again.”

Jules let out a shaky, panicky breath that lasted about three seconds.

“Eight,” I said. “Slow it down.” I waited while she got the hang of it and our plane neared the final stage of takeoff. I watched her full lips as she gradually got a handle on her breathing. Once she had it somewhat under control, I tapped the back of her hand. “Relax your grip. Just keep breathing.”

She nodded, then squeezed her eyes shut when the plane rapidly gained speed a moment later. I nearly yanked my hand back when she reached out and gripped my wrist. But I decided it was harmless. She was terrified, and I needed a functional PA for this trip, not a nervous wreck. That’s all. I wasn’t being kind. I was fixing a malfunctioning piece of machinery I needed to get the job done.

Once we were airborne and the main drama of takeoff was behind us, she seemed to realize she was still holding onto my wrist and let go with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Now that you’re done, you need to take advantage of the time we’re in the air to get caught up on my emails. And be more careful about which messages you sort as “critical.” I don’t need to know about authors who forgot to sign their contracts. Send that to Mike. He does author relations.”

She nodded, but I saw her keep glancing at me over the next few minutes like she was wanting to say something.

It was distracting, so I finally sighed, setting my phone down. “Is there something you want to say?”

“I was just wondering how you knew all that. It was really helpful. The breathing stuff, I mean.”

“My little sister,” I said. “She’s afraid of heights. Spiders. Dogs. A few other things.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jordan. You’ll meet her in New Orleans. She’s part of the team.” For once, nobody on my team was using a false first name. We’d all felt it somehow symbolically important to use our real names for this final job. When Russ Coleton looked around and realized everything he’d worked for had been destroyed, we wanted him to have our real names to blame. We wanted him to know who had fucked him. Besides, this was our last job. We all had enough money to live our lives without another day of work after this, and none of us would need to protect our identity any further when we were done.