Page 19 of Tempting the Billionaire
Her eyes sparkle. “Only with you,” she says, and it makes my stomach do a fucking summersault.
“I have a cabin up in Maine. Come with me?”
She nods. “I can’t wait.”
Chapter 10
Emma
I wait patiently in my living room, my duffle packed and ready for the weekend ahead. I check the time on my phone—almost 6 o’clock. Ezra is sending a car to pick me up soon. A car that will take me to the airport, because apparently, we’reflyingto Ezra’s cabin in Maine.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. I’m a New Englander, so of course I’m no stranger to weekend trips to the lake. But those trips usually entail a road trip packed with junk food, a crappy worn out cabin, and smores around a dilapidated fire.
Not private jets and a fancy luxury cabin right on the coast in Bar Harbor, Maine. But I suppose this isEzra’s life. I’m just happy to be a part of it. At least for the weekend.
My phone buzzes—a text from Ezra’s driver.
I grab my stuff and hurry out to the curb where a black SUV is waiting for me. I tentatively climb in. “For Emma, right?” I ask.
The man nods. “Yep. I’m taking you to the airport.”
Instead of going to Boston Logan, like I’d assumed, we take a different route and end up at a completely different airport entirely. When I question the driver about this, he merely laughs. “Private jets don’t fly out of Logan, Miss,” he says.
Trying to hide my embarrassment, I just nod. Of course they don’t.
The SUV pulls right up onto the tarmac, parking near a jet. I see Ezra standing on the stairs leading up to it, and he looks up as the car pulls in.
I hop out while the driver grabs my bag from the back, and Ezra smiles, walking up to pull me into a hug. I giggle against his chest. “I saw you like two hours ago at work.”
“Yeah, way too long ago,” he murmurs into my hair. I swat him playfully.
He grabs my bag from the driver, thanks him, and then takes my hand, leading me up the stairs and intothe plane. While I know what private jets look like—mainly from movies—I’ve obviously never been on one. And seeing one in person, my mouth drops open. Instead of rows of bunched-up seats, there are couches and lounge chairs, with tables in between.
“How long is the flight?” I ask Ezra.
He shrugs. “Forty minutes?”
I shake my head. “I could spend the weekendin here,” I say, gesturing around.
He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and squeezing. “That could be arranged,” he murmurs, making me giggle.
We arrive in the coastal town of Bar Harbor, Maine approximately forty minutes later. And although Ezra and I didn’t exactly join the mile high club, we definitely made it close.
Ezra has a car waiting for us when we land, which immediately takes us through the adorable town of Bar Harbor and then along some winding backroads until we come upon what I can only describe as a mansionlocated along one of the small island’s gorgeous beaches.
I stare in awe as Ezra grabs our bags from the driver and then approaches the front door. He unlocks it and then turns back to me with a smirk. “You coming?”
I close my mouth and follow him, trying to keep my surprise in check. I really shouldn’t be surprised. Of course Ezra Bishop owns an enormous beach house on an island in Maine.
The inside of the house is just as gorgeous as the outside. It’s got an understated nautical theme going on, with white couches, light wood furnishings, and huge bay windows looking out to the ocean barely steps from the back door.
Ezra busies himself in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of wine and pulling something out of the fridge and popping it into the oven.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He grins. “I had one of my private chefs mix something up and have it ready to go in the oven. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”
I try to conceal my shock.One ofhis private chefs? He has more than one? I almost laugh out loud. We make our way to the porch out back, the sound of the waves crashing and seagulls chirping the only noise to be heard.
