Page 42 of Things We Tell Ourselves

Camille nods him away, waiting until he’s risen from the seat, stepping out into the aisle to watch him go.

She’s grateful for the comfortable spot to perch her elbows, but she’s even more grateful for the view, the one out the window and the one inside. She’s forced to peel her eyes from him when he turns, not wanting him to see her staring. The distant view of the city from above doesn’t quite have the same intimate feel as the view from Leah’s backyard, but it’s a close second. It’s the sun slowly meeting the horizon that has her memorized.

“No,” Wade says, his voice growing louder, “you told me it was in Delaware,” he catches himself, glancing back at Camille. He lowers his voice, turning his back to her. “What do you mean that was last time? You’re telling me it’s happened again?” He shakes his head in frustration. “Look, neither my assistant nor I contacted them. There’s no reason to. The only logical explanation to stop production is if the sales fell through, which also isn’t possible because the sales have all been finalized.” He runs his hand through his hair. “You need to straighten this out, and while you’re at it, call the rest of our manufacturing plants and make sure every last one of them is good to go.” He nods at the phone. “That’s what I want to hear.”

When they land less than an hour later, the horizon is wrapping the sun into itself, casting shades of pinks, oranges, and purples across the sky.

“That was a short flight,” Camille says, watching the jet taxi past the commercial planes, imagining what the passengers must think as they see this beauty roll past them.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glances at Wade sitting across from her. He barely nods, scrolling through his phone, still looking annoyed.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, raising her brow.

He looks up at her, rolling his shoulders back as the stress melts from his face. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Good,” she grins, “because I’m not letting you back out of that contract.”

“Not a chance,” Wade agrees, glancing out the window. “What do you think of your jet-setting experience so far?”

Camille turns to her window and smiles. “It’s definitely better than flying commercial.

“Right.” A smile breaks out across his face.

She does her best to keep her gaze out the window as the plane taxis to another private section of the airport. “How much time did we save getting here?” she asks.

“I’d say this time of day; it would have easily taken us six hours to drive to Sacramento.”

“Wow,” Camille gapes, taking one last swig of her water. “I should take a jet more often.”

Wade shoves his phone in the front pocket of his khakis. “You come up with a few more inventions like your last one, and you could buy your own.”

“Ah, come on. There isn’t like a time-share program for jets?”

Wade laughs. “That sounds like something my penny-pinching grandfather would have asked. I’m sure there is,” he says to her, “but if not, you should look into it as your next big venture.”

Camille giggles at the idea before offering him a serious look. “I just might.”

Camille’s seriousness breaks, and they both chuckle. A moment later, their laughter drifts off as they hold each other’s gaze. Camille’s stomach tightens. There’s that heat again.

“Your car is ready for you,” the stewardess announces.

Camille jumps in surprise. The stewardess grins politely as they walk up from the back, but her eyes dart between the two of them. Camille is watching her. She can tell that stewardess knows she’s interrupting something. The thought of what she could have interrupted if she would have made her announcement a couple of minutes later causes Camille to blush.

“Thank you,” Wade clears his throat, straightening the front of his shirt before standing; his hips eye level to Camille. “Will my briefcase fit in the safe?” he asks as Camille diverts her eyes.

The stewardess looks at the briefcase, still sitting on the couch where he left it. “Of course, Mr. Bloom. You have the code?”

“I do,” he confirms, watching the stewardess walk over to the couch.

Camille stands, wondering if all jets have safes. Wade glances back at her.

“You ready?”

She runs her palms over the back of her berry-colored blazer, hoping she hadn’t wrinkled it too badly during the flight. “Yup,” she says, feeling only minor creases at the small of her back.

He waits for Camille to catch up. “I hope you’re ready for the best cooking in California.”

She smiles up at him. “I can’t wait.”

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