Page 21 of My Totally Unfair Deal

He’s relaxed, easygoing—like a version of himself I don’t recognize. Someone who actually sounds like he has a life outside our farm…

Still, the longer he reminisces with Mr. Manhattan, the tighter my stomach coils—and the more I wonder whether I’d survive if I jumped onto the highway.

By mile eighty, I’m silently rooting for a Mack truck to take us all out.

Maybe we’d get some sympathy business deals out of it.

The second we roll to a stop in the unloading zone, I’m already out of the car. Opening the trunk, I pull out my suitcase and carry-on bag.

As I’m rolling it to the curb, Jackson pulls me into a long hug and kisses my cheek.

“Thank you for doing this,” he says. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

I still don’t understand what he means bythis, but I nod stiffly.

He shakes Harrison’s hand—like this is some kind of victory lap—then drives off before I can jump on the bumper and beg him to take me back.

“Well…” I let out a breath and decide to be nice. “Since we’re going to be spending the next several weeks together, Mr. Manhattan?—”

“What part ofwear a cocktail dress and heels for this flightwas unclear?” He cuts me off. “I told you to do that for a reason.”

“If you’d asked instead of commanded,” I say, “you’d know that I don’t own any heels.”

“Not a single pair?”

“Doyouown a single pair?”

“No.” A slow smirk crosses his lips. “My apologies for assuming. When I first met you, you were wearing a dress… What’s your excuse for not wearing one now?”

“I don’t like wearing them,” I admit.

“You made a deal with me, Eliza,” he says, looking me up and down. “You need to do what I say and wear what I say if you want results.”

“What do you want me to do, then?” I ask. “Pull a dress out of my suitcase and change into it?”

“That would be nice.”

“Now?”

“After we get through security, yes.”

Holding back a groan, I bend to grab my suitcase, but he beats me to it—grabbing the handle like he dares me to take it back.

“Never handle your own luggage or carry things when you’re traveling with a man,” he says. “The guy should offer to do it for you.”

“And when I’m traveling by myself?”

“If you dress like I’m about to teach you to—” His eyes are way too beautiful for him to have. “—a guy will offer to handle it for you.”

I turn away from him and rush inside the sliding departure doors, desperate to kill our conversation—and to stop myself from staring into his eyes any longer.

TEN (B)

ELIZA

I’ve never flown this airline before—definitely not in first class.

Everyone in our section looks like they just stepped off the pages of a lifestyle magazine: crisp blazers, silk scarves, loafers so clean they’ve probably never touched real pavement.

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