The overhead compartment was packed full, so he held his bags in front of him, squished between the stoner’s spread legs and seat 33C and B, and dropped into his seat. With his backpack stuffed under the seat in front of him, his clothes for the wedding in the garment bag folded as neatly as possible on top of it, he had absolutely zero legroom.
Grady was going to be pissed. Haley would roll, as Haley rolled miraculously well, for one of Patricia Mallory’s offspring. Maybe it was thanks to having a different dad, or not enduring adolescence under Patricia’s roof, when the divide between Grady and he had begun to widen.
He dug out his phone to text an update, but changed his mind. Better to wait until he was on the ground and on the road.
He leaned back in his seat, shifted, and thunked his head back as he realized there was zero give.
“Back row, man,” the stoner said, leaning closer than necessary, the skunky weed smell flooding Ryder’s nose. “This is as comfortable as we’re gonna get.”
The engines fired up, the roar close enough that his back and ass vibrated.
Ryder nodded at his fellow passenger. “Loud, too,” he said companionably over the noise.
The stoner nodded in dramatic agreement, and fell abruptly into a snore.
At least he wouldn’t have to engage in conversation.
On his other side, the knitter’s needles rhythmically swished, the constant tap click tap like a ticking clock at three in the morning.
The brakes disengaged, and the plane rolled back.
Ryder folded his arms in his lap, both armrests already claimed, and closed his eyes. Pavlovian at this point, so programmed to sleep on the plane, he should fall asleep any second. Up until one in the damn morning with his team to celebrate, then up at six to prep for the last-minute meeting, and in the headquarters of Sonora Seltzer by eight for a useless meeting to “get the ball rolling” on the contract he’d already slam dunked, thus, his sleep debt was reaching toxic levels.
That promotion has better be in the pipeline, after nailing the marketing contract that was going to absolutely next-level the company he’d dedicated ten years of blood, sweat, and tears to. Plus his social life. And his sleep. His sex life. Any sort of life.
Now that he’d put in more hours than anyone else at his level, raked in bigger profits—therefore bigger bonuses for the guys with the fancy titles—his boss implied that Ryder was next in line to join their ranks. Write his own ticket, ski every weekend, get that cushy corner office, and leave early every Friday because he felt like it.
The engine blasted behind him, the plane slowing before the rush to defy gravity. And… go time. Accelerating faster than he’d ever gotten his Cayenne to go, the plane took off down the runway.
In the seat in front of him, a baby released a skull-piercing screech. The mom shushed and cooed and offered a boob, but the baby was too furious to accept comfort.
Ryder sealed his eyes tighter, willing sleep to come.
Nothing. Goddammit.
Time ticked painfully slowly. Nothing to do but wait. He pulled the magazine from the seat in front of him and flipped to the crossword. Seventy percent filled in. And half the answers were wrong.
He stuffed it back into the pocket next to the wrinkled puke bag and a candy wrapper.
When his stoned neighbor got up to pee, Ryder grabbed his garment bag and ducked into the other bathroom. In the cramped space, he flipped down the toilet lid and slipped out of the shredded jeans from the meeting with the ultra-hip seltzer team in their arcade-style breakroom, and changed into slacks for the wedding. He was going to be wrinkled enough, so he left to change in the car. He quickly freshened up and was back in his seat before his neighbor was done, and the seatbelt light dinged on for landing.
For the final few minutes of the flight, his knee vibrated fast, and he glared up at the ceiling. Beachy brunch seltzer. Like a mimosa, but better. He mapped out the next campaign in his mind, already prepping the pitch. Sparkling water meets artisan brew meets tropical fruit, so it didn’t come off like a wine spritzer. New flavor, of course, something tropical.
Almost noon. Going to be a photo fucking finish—if traffic cooperated. As the plane taxied, he grabbed his bags and waited for his moment. And… now.
Even at his latest, he was neverthatguy, the asshole who shoved everyone aside to get off first. But today was different.
“Sorry,” he said as he slipped behind someone grabbing their bag. “Sorry. Sorry, have to get to a wedding,” he said, smiling and ignoring the glares, expletives, and damnational curses fired his way.
The second he stepped onto the jetway, he booked it. Fucking hell, he was still four hours away.
At this point in his career, he knew every airport on the west coast like the back of his hand. Plus the rest in the country, and a few other countries almost half as well. Out of the gate, he turned left and hauled ass toward the rental car desk.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Hey, Grady,” he answered without slowing.
“Why are you out of breath?” his brother answered, not bothering with formalities.
“Missed my flight, but it’s okay, I caught another one.”
