Chapter Twenty-Three

It really occurs to me—a bit too long after the fact—that I’m going to be on a private jet with Jameson for lengthy periods of time, in prep meetings with him for lengthy periods of time and quasi on his arm… For lengthy periods of time. As in, the full-on reality full-on sets in!

While I’m in the limo on the way to the hanger, I don’t peruse the lingerie catalog. Rather, I whip out my iPad and consult the newly updated agenda to specifically note what all of these obligations are to be, how much travel will be done with us alone and whether we actually are booked at the same hotels.

I don’t make it through the entire itinerary before I snap the lid closed on the tablet, let my head fall back on the top of the seat, close my eyes and… Groan.

Jesus, son of a bitch. I won’t just be “quasi” on his arm. We’re basically going to be joined at the hip. For three fucking weeks.

And, somehow, I’m supposed to not drool over him in public, accidentally bat my eyelashes in shameless flirtation, a