Ivy looks up at me over the top of her sunglasses at I climb into the Suburban. We're heading to my jet. The sky is impossibly blue, the kind of clear that only a night of storms can bring about.
"You look like shit," she utters, giving me a full once-over before getting back to whatever important dealings she's got on her phone this early in the morning.
"I ... the storms kept me up," I manage.
She doesn't even need to look up at me. I know she knows I'm lying.
A storm did keep me up. But his name is Ben and we texted for hours. When I did finally fall asleep for an hour or two, they were frenzied, heart-racing dreams. I woke up vibrating with energy.
This is a crush.
"All systems are a GO," my heart is screaming.
The timing is terrible. I need to get a grip. I ... can't stop thinking about him.
Fuck.
I don't get to have normal crushes. My name is too well known, my reputation far too delicate. There is protocol for this kind of stuff. I will have to rope in my closest confidants and ugh, the legal team. If I go down over some texts, my whole empire could go down with me.
I'm not ready to burst the bubble.
As I make my way to the bedroom quarters in the back of the jet, I turn down the offer of breakfast. I just want to go to sleep for a couple hours. By which I mean, text Ben some more.
Ivy is on my heels as I go to close the door. She pushes her way in. I catch Nick's eye behind her. He looks away.
"Spill it," Ivy demands.
"Spill WHAT?" I respond, feeling the blood creep up to my cheeks. "I just didn't get a lot of sleep."
"I heard someone slipped you a bracelet with another someone's phone number."
"Oh?" I ask innocently. I am a comically terrible liar. I'm going to yell at Nick later.
"You know the drill. I need to get in touch with his people and we need to get his signature A-S-A-P. I can get it by the time we land."
FUCK. Bubble. Burst.
"Fuck. Fine. Yes, it's possible I was texting with Ben Archer last night. But it's nothing."
"Sure, American's most eligible bachelor who happens to casually look like a God is nothing," she sneers. "Show me your phone then."
"Absolutely not," I say, shoving my iPhone into the bottom of my bag.
But it's too late. Ivy has been with me for over a decade and who-knows-how-many beaus. There are signs she's grown used to.
"I'll take care of it; you may want to warn him," she starts walking out of my quarters, before popping her head back in. "Enjoy your nap."