Nick texted me Thursday morning.
Do you want me to arrange the jet?
I stared at the message for ten seconds.
The what?
The jet. For the trip. It’s faster than driving and Mia gets carsick on mountain roads.
You have a jet.
Emily. I’m one of the wealthiest Alphas in the country. I run a company that just acquired three others. Yes. I have a jet.
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost pulled a muscle.
Of course you do.
Is that a yes?
It’s an acknowledgment that you’re ridiculous.
I’ll take that as a yes. Wheels up at ten. I’ll send the address.
I put the phone down. Picked it up. Put it down again. A private jet. To a family resort won through a colouring competition. Because nothing about my life made sense anymore and I’d stopped expecting it to.
The morning of the trip, I had Mia’
