Thousand Yard Bride (4 page)

That didn’t do much to calm my heart down. I could tell he was checking me out, too. It was probably out of habit, but his expression remained unreadable. As he kept his eyes on me, I
felt
his lips when they spread in a smile—a dark promise for what he could do to me.

Instantly, I pressed my thighs together and fought down a rush of electric ice.

However, his smile faded quickly after that. Once his parents told him why I was there, his energy towards me became hostile. It hit me that this had been an ambush. His inconsiderate parents had just made my job much more difficult.

And now we were going to be spending a
lot
of time together.

Wonderful.

Following Hunter out of the club, I worked at the first part of my plan—getting him to warm up to me. “Don’t think of me watching your every move,” I said with forced optimism. “Think of it more like a team effort, where we work together to help reshape the public’s opinion of you, show them how well-rounded you really are.”

“I wouldn’t mind being shown how well-rounded
you
are,” he replied, clearly trying to throw me off my game with his blatant flirting. But I only gave him a tight, no-nonsense smile. I was determined to stay focused, smoldering amber eyes notwithstanding. Kicking ass at this job was everything to me right now.

A limousine pulled up, and a chauffeur opened the door for me. I’d never been in a limo before. Hesitating, I scanned the inside, not entering it yet.

“Mind sliding over?” Hunter asked in my ear.

Heat slammed into my belly, then my head slammed on the roof. Wincing, I ignored his soft chuckle and scooted across the seat, going as far back as I could—away from him. He kept his distance, thankfully, settling on the seat across from me.

His attention traced low, making me realize my skirt had pulled up a little bit from sliding across the seat and that Hunter was checking out my thigh. Blushing, I smoothed my skirt over my knees.

“Too bad,” he said. “I was enjoying the view.” Hunter was determined to give me a hard time. If he thought he was going to break me and make me quit, he was wrong. He’d met his match.

I could handle him.

We drove for about an hour to a small airport in New York that I’d never been to—the kind of place where rich people kept their jets. It felt weird to get on a plane without having to wait in all the airport lines. I was extra glad for it, too, since I didn't have to try and make conversation for long before we were heading to our seats.

When we did talk, I kept up a friendly, neutral, mostly one-sided conversation. It was the only armor I had—be as boring as I could be. Keep things cool and mellow. I had to, otherwise I'd have to dwell on the terrible things my brain wanted to throw at me thanks to Hunter's magnetic pull.

Every woman on the planet feels this way around Hunter
, I reminded myself.
Get over it
.

I watched as a blonde bombshell of a flight attendant kept Hunter’s glass full of champagne while he stared out his window, sculpted jaw tense. I wondered what he was thinking about. Did he really hate the idea of having me around that much? Or was he just angry at his parents for controlling his life? I needed him to meet me at least part way, or I would never get through to him.

“Ever been on a private jet before?” he asked, suddenly turning toward me.

I jumped in my seat—could he tell I'd been staring at him this whole time? “Can’t say that I have.”

“What about the mile-high club? I hear that's possible even in coach,” he said with more than just a hint of snark.

I didn’t take the bait. “Also no, sadly. You?”

“Well, if I told you, you might think that I’m some kind of
bad boy
.” He showed off his pearly teeth. I bet he'd never even needed braces as a kid.

Lifting my eyebrows, I said, “Oh, I don’t think. I know.”

Leaning back in his seat, he stretched his long legs in front of him. Guys like Hunter were born to fly in private jets, how could he ever fit in coach? “My parents tell you that and you believed them?"

"Anyone in the world could tell me that, Hunter."

Chuckling, he considered me from the corner of his eye. "Fair enough. Look, straight up, I'm not a fan of the fact that my parents hired a babysitter for me. Then again, I always had a thing for my sitter when I was a kid. Maybe we could find a way to get along, darling.”

“How about you just call me Jo, ok?”

He nodded slowly. “You're already asking me to do things, not a good sign. Don’t be too much of a hard ass, if you don't mind,
sweetie.”

My patience was fading.
Just stay the course, reason with him.
“Listen, Hunter, I’m not here to ruin your day or to stop you from having fun. I’m here to protect you. You have a lot going for you, and everyone just wants the best for you.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Hunter said, his temper flaring in an instant like I’d seen back at the club. "I know you’re just another corporate stooge working for my folks. Don’t pretend to be on my side.” He turned to face the window, shoving in his earbuds and blasting his music so loud I could hear it.

He wanted to ignore me? Fine. Two could play that game. I was glad I’d brought a new book on crisis management in P.R. There was no better way to distract yourself than a good book—for research or otherwise.

And, normally, I could have zoned in anywhere else and forgotten where I was.

Who I was with.

But every time Hunter breathed in, I felt the air shift. It sent waves of heat my way, his scent like a fresh pine tree, like the air next to a forgotten train track. I could feel—
Okay,
I cut myself off.
Now you're getting poetic about a guy because he's making your panties a little warm. Relax, Jo.

To my relief, the attendant saved me from myself. "Would you like something to eat?" she asked, smiling sweetly. "Cookies, peanuts? They're only three dollars."

My growling empty-since-breakfast stomach made me blurt out, “We're on a private jet and you're
charging
me for the snacks?” Immediately I clapped my hand over my mouth, but before I could apologize for my hangry words the flight attendant had already stalked away down the narrow aisle.

“Someone's entitled,” Hunter snickered from his seat, tilting back the last of his champagne.

“I'm not,” I shot back, returning to my book and regretting my embarrassing outburst. Now I was humiliated, hungry, and confused by how frustrated I was with how Hunter was ignoring me.

To my shock, the attendant returned soon with a picture-perfect club on ciabatta, along with a cloth napkin, a bottle of sparkling water, a tiny bowl of green olives, and a bag of kettle chips.

“You are a
goddess
,” I thanked the flight attendant, unable to conceal my delight. As I dug into the food with relish I noticed Hunter out of the corner of my eye. He was stifling a small grin at my quiet moans of pleasure.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“I could get used to this,” I said between bites.

"Hang with me and you'll see what it's like to be pampered," he said, tucking one earbud back in. I was close to feeling regret—he was going to shut me out again—when I realized he'd slid
one
bud in.

The other hung in his lap, leaving his ear open to me. Like he wanted to hear me speak.

Or maybe . . .

Just hear me moan as I ate my food.

Either way, I felt better.

Almost six hours later, we touched down at LAX. As we stepped off the plane, someone handed him a wardrobe bag. He hooked it over his shoulder, leading me out on the tarmac and to yet another limo.

Hunter said, “You know this event is fancy, right? A dress-to-impress sort of deal? It’s at The Standard.”

I hadn’t had a chance to pack, not knowing that I was about to be whisked directly from a meeting to an event across the country. It was almost like Hunter’s parents were setting me up to fail.

Eyeing his wardrobe bag, I grimaced. I didn't know what The Standard was, but he said it was fancy . . . . Figuring the best way to prove myself Hunter’s equal was to appear to be in control at all times, I said, “Don't worry about me. I just need to make a quick stop. I’ll meet you there.”

He squinted at me dubiously. Even with a wrinkled forehead, he still looked great. "You'll meet me? You're sure?"

"Of course, it'll be fine!" I put on my best I’ve-got-this-covered smile and even did a silly wink. The instant the limo drove off with Hunter in it, I panic-texted my sister. I tapped out:
I AM SO SCREWED. I need a ‘dress to impress’ dress for a party at The Standard, and I have no idea where to look. LOS ANGELES!!! What is my life?

Lanie texted back:
LA? Cool! I just Googled. There’s a trendy boutique near The Standard called Lace Park. It closes in ten minutes, but I just called and the manager says they’ll stay open for an extra half hour. Uber there ASAP.

I sent her a smiley face.
You’re a lifesaver

Lanie responded:
You can do this, Jo. Make sure you pick a good dress. Black, short, and strappy is your friend.

I kept my fingers crossed that Hunter wouldn’t get into too much trouble during the time I Uber'd to the shop. What could he possibly fuck up in fifteen minutes?

I decided to hurry, anyway.

The second I stepped inside, I knew I was out of my element. I didn't feel comfortable in this kind of shop around these kinds of dresses, which were as artfully arranged as museum pieces.

I was much more used to department store suits and workout gear for climbing. Most of the dresses in my closet at home were a few years old. I was terribly out of date, my only references were the crazy outfits celebrities wore to Galas and the like.

I froze in the doorway, breaking into a cold sweat and trying to decide if I should call Lanie in panic mode or just make a run for it. Thankfully, a peppy young shop girl with teak skin, layers of gold jewelry, and the brightest smile I’d ever seen rushed to my aid. “Hey there! Welcome! Are you Jo?”

“Yes!” I accidentally shouted back in my relief. Then: "Wait, you know who I am?"

“Your sister called, she said you'd be coming and to look for—what did she say?" She tapped her chin. "Something like 'the woman who looks terrified.'"

Oh, good ol' Lanie. "That's me," I mumbled.

"She told us you needed some wardrobe nine-one-one. What’s the occasion?”

“I need a dress for a fancy cocktail event,” I babbled. “I’ve been told to get something black, short, and strappy. That’s all I know. Help.”

“It’s your lucky day,” the shop girl continued with enthusiasm. “We just got something perfect in, black silk and just a little bit of lace."

My rapid pulse finally slowed as I realized what excellent hands I was in. The shop girl whisked herself away and returned with a black, fitted, super sexy number. Before that day, I would have never even considered buying anything like it.

It was entirely not me. Surely, this girl saw that, too. I waited for her to break out into laughter. I must have looked like a deer caught in headlights again, but the shop girl was on my side. “Trust me, you’re going to rock this,” she said.

I tried the dress on in the fitting room and looked in the mirror. It was quite a departure from my usual selection that Lanie often called “boring.” While I didn't feel at all myself wearing something so clingy, I knew I had to do whatever it took to be able to stick by Hunter’s side during the event. I had to look the part to make it all happen.

It was a fake-it-until-you-make-it moment, and I prepared myself to fake the heck out of it.

I was a little embarrassed, but I asked the shop girl if she’d clip the tags so I could wear the dress out of the store. “Sure thing! You look stunning. Oh. You might need a fun clutch with that. Not sure where your phone would fit. And shoes. You can’t wear those. They’re brown,” she said, referencing my sensible flats.

Fortunately, the millennial retail worker—who might actually have been my fairy godmother in disguise—produced a killer beaded bag which I threw my credit card, ID, lipstick, and phone into as fast as I could. I shoved my suit and everything that wouldn't fit into a Lace Park shopping bag. Then I slipped my feet into the flimsy kitten heels the girl had set out for me and paced around the store trying to get used to them.

“Thanks for not laughing,” I said.

“Aw, it’s nothing. You’re like
Pretty Woman
. It’s adorbs. Now go be fierce.”

I flashed her a smile before wobbling out the door.

* * *

I
arrived
at the Croc-Cooler event just as it was starting. The rooftop venue had a nightclub feel. Models in Croc-Cooler logo swimsuits hung out in the pool. Buff-looking dudes stood around swilling the energy drink while cameras flashed. I had to fight through the crowd of models, media, and photographers to get to Hunter, who was the man of the hour.

"Excuse me," I grunted, finally breaking through the bodies. I had a straight ahead view of my surroundings. Of Hunter.

Holy hell.

When he said dress to impress, he really took it to heart. He was wearing a blue button down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his well-muscled forearms, the front left open to reveal a chest-hugging Croc-Cooler graphic tee underneath. He paired the shirts with a pair of just-the-right-amount of tight light gray jeans.