Reece makes a sound like a dying whale.
“Paddleboarding Away the Pain in Maui!” Gordon’s on a roll. “I Biked Down a Volcano to Outrun Heartache!”
Reece groans again as he climbs the plane steps before yelling, “How about, Masturbating On My Honeymoon for 24 Hours.”
Ignoring him, Gordon whirls toward me, his lavender tux now a wrinkled mess. “I want video ideas in my inbox before you land in Maui.”
With a solemn nod, it dawns on me that for the next two weeks, I’ll be filming the world’s most expensive pity party.
But hey, I’m not going to let Reece’s mood get me down—I’m still going to Maui!
***
Istepontotheprivate jet and immediately freeze in the doorway. My first thought: I should turn around, climb right back down those steps, and call an Uber. My second thought: I need my camera, because this? This deserves to be immortalized.
This isn’t a plane—it’s a honeymoon suite with wings. Every surface sparkles with fairy lights and heart-shaped decorations, including a cheesyMr. & Mrs. Darebanner strung across the back wall in glittering gold letters. And there’s a bed for fucking, but…
No.
Fucking.
SEATS.
Not even a sad little fold-down jump seat for the bodyguard or chaperone. Instead, dominating the cabin is a single, giant bed—king-size, no less—draped in white silk sheets, drowning in rose petals.
There’s a champagne bucket on a side table, condensation dripping down its sides. In the middle of the mattress is a gold-rimmed tray, with an enormous bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries and… My eyes lock on to what I’d call a “romance survival kit.” Massage oil. Feathers. And condoms. So many flavored condoms. My God, these flavors are a crime against orgasms: banana split, ranch dressing, fried pickle… bacon?!
My overaccommodating brain supplies images I didn’t ask for—all too vivid images of Reece and Astrid christening this cupid’s orgy fest at 30,000 feet.Yuck!
The pilot pokes his head out, his handlebar mustache twitching. “Mr. Dare, I’m Captain Mitchell, but you can call me ‘Captain Love.’ We’ll be taking off momentarily. Wanted to let you both know that I’ll be wearing noise-canceling headphones for your… privacy.” He winks.
Ew. Gross.I know for a fact you can still hear everything. Pervy pilot’s probably got a whole spank bank of mile-high club greatest hits stored in his brain.
“And if you’d like to fly with ‘Cupid’s Cockpit’ back to LA when your trip is over,” he continues, his voice oozing customer service smarm, “we’d be happy to accommodate. Just scan the QR code on the tray next to the—”
He gestures vaguely toward the pile of sex supplies.
“—the, uh, lube bottle for all the details.”
The pilot glances at Reece’s pocket like he’s willing him to pull out his phone.
Reece exhales sharply, angling his device at the tray.
DING!
The man’s mustache does a little victory twitch. “Excellent. I’ve been added to your contacts.”
I stare at Reece, wondering how often he has to put up with this kind of crap. How many people shove business deals, opportunities, favor requests at him in the most insane ways?
The cockpit door clicks shut, and Reece flops back onto the bed. Rose petals explode around him in a red cloud. He’s like a fallen angel—all broad shoulders and devastation wrapped in a wrinkled white button down.
My fingers twitch toward my camera. This shot would be perfect—the defeated groom surrounded by remnants of romance. The lighting is dramatic, casting deep shadows that emphasize his jawline and highlight the tension on his face.
“Do you want me to—” I gesture weakly with my Sony “—you know, film this?”
“No.”
Cool. Cool cool cool.Just gonna stand here, then. In a sex plane. With my grumpy boss.
