Page 5 of Meant For Love

“Good. I know you do most of the work remotely once you have everything settled. I also know you like to work one-on-one with the person at the top of the company, so that would be me.” My stomach gets the same butterflies it did the first time I met him. “I know staying in LA for a couple of weeks or months while you work on our file would be a little bit of an inconvenience. But we would make it worth your while.”

“I don’t know if I can do it,” I answer him honestly.

“Why don’t you do something?” He cuts me off before I can say no. “Come down and take a tour of the office.” I close my eyes because this is exactly what I need to do. Get out of New York City and away from Josh, not be here for him. As if I’m waiting for him to get his head out of his ass. I need to be unavailable for him is what I need to do. I need to focus on me and take what I need and not what he wants. I can hear myself cheering me on about being all brave and shit.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Maybe I should hang up the phone and think about it before I just give him an answer. Except today, after the emotional events of last night, my mouth, my brain, and my heart are not on the same page. I shock even myself when the words come out. “Fine, I’ll come out.”

Three

Zoey

I’m sliding on my jacket when the doorbell rings and my phone alerts me that someone is at the door. Something my Uncle Matthew had installed when I moved into the brownstone he owned in New York. I look down at the camera and see the man standing there look up, no doubt listening to the recording telling him he’s on camera.

I grab my Gucci backpack before I head out of my bedroom and run down the stairs toward the front door. Unlocking it and pulling it open, I see the man standing there wearing a black suit. “Ms. Richards,” he says, “I’m Mr. Kent. I’ll be taking you to the airport.”

“Hi,” I say, smiling at him. “I’m ready.”

“If you have any luggage, I can take it now.” I open the door, showing him the one bag that I’m taking for the four days I’ll be in LA while meeting with Nash.

“I can take it down with me,” I tell him, and he shakes his head.

“My mother would whoop my behind if I let a lady carry her bag,” he states, stepping into the entrance and grabbing the rose-gold, stainless-steel carry-on suitcase I always travel with.

“Then by all means,” I say, pointing at the bag, “have at it.”

I wait for him to take the bag and carry it down the stairs before I lock the door behind me. I make my way down the stairs to the double-parked black Cadillac Escalade. The driver stands there with my luggage beside him as he holds the back door open for me. “Thank you, Mr. Kent,” I say, stepping into the back seat. The door shuts behind me, then he walks to the back and puts my suitcase in the trunk.

I pull my phone out of my pocket right after I buckle myself in. At the same time, Mr. Kent gets into the front seat. “Let me know if you would like to stop for coffee anywhere,” he offers over his shoulder.

I smile at him as he pulls away from my house. “I’m good, but thank you, Mr. Kent.”

I look out the window. The music plays softly from the speakers as we make our way over to the private airport. The minute I told Nash I would meet with him, it took him an hour to message me over my flight information, along with the information of the car service he had picking me up. He did not miss a beat. By the end of the workday, it finally sank in that I was going to LA until Friday. Then I would come home and prepare for our family vacation next week.

Even this morning when I got up, I did not expect Nash to text me.

Nash: Fly safe. I’ll see you when you get here.

It was eight o’clock Eastern Time, which means it was five where he was. Was he getting up at that time, or was he getting home at that time? It could be either, and I couldn’t put my finger on why the latter bothered me so much.

Me: Sounds good.

I press send, looking down at the phone, only putting it away once the SUV stops. I look out, seeing we are here, and the plane awaits us. I slide my phone into the backpack's side pocket containing my purse and my laptop and grab the door handle, but it’s pulled open before I can open it myself. “Let me help you,” Mr. Kent says, outstretching his hand for me to grab it.

“Thank you.” I put my hand in his as I step out, hooking the strap to my backpack around my shoulder before I walk toward the plane. Mr. Kent unloads my bag as I walk up the four steps toward the inside of the plane.

“Good morning, Ms. Richards,” the flight attendant says, smiling at me. “I’m Ricky, welcome aboard.”

“Good morning, Ricky,” I reply, walking down the aisle that has one seat on either side, each facing another set of seats, and a beige couch right behind one set of chairs with a pillow and folded blanket on it.

“We are ready to go whenever you are,” she says as I turn and put my backpack in the chair facing the seat I’m going to sit in. “As soon as we are up in the air, I’ll have your breakfast ready for you.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised as I sit in the chair, “I don’t think I ordered anything.” I know usually they send you a menu so you can order food before you get on the plane. But I didn’t even think about it until this very minute.

She smiles at me. “Mr. Griffin took care of it.”

“Oh,” I reply softly, “all right.” She turns around and walks back over to the plane door. I look out the window and see Mr. Kent has left already. I hear the door slamming shut before she walks into the open door to the pilots, saying something to them.

Reaching over and grabbing my phone, I see I’ve missed a text from Nash.

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