Page 32 of Fire
This plane looks like it could carry an entire NFL team. Wait, how many football players actually make a team? Twenty? Thirty? I have no idea. All I know is that when I step out of that sleek black SUV, my palms feel sweaty, and I definitely feel out of my league.
The Prices are wealthy, but this is a whole other level.
I start to reach for my bags as the driver hauls them out of the back, but he politely intervenes. “I’ve got it, ma’am. Unless there’s something you wish to take with you onboard?”
“Just this,” I say, patting the large strap of my medical bag currently slung over my shoulder. I doubt I’ll need it on theplane, but as of today, this giant thing is my new best friend. I’ll have a better setup when we’re on site at concert venues, but this bag has everything I’ll need in a pinch. “Do I just…?”
He gives me a warm smile, showing no trace of judgment or amusement at my obvious nervousness. “Yep, just head on up the stairs. The crew will get your ID and get you situated.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering if I should tip him. But before I decide, I hear someone shout my name over my shoulder.
“Dr. Valentine!”
I turn, and I don’t know why, but I feel immediate disappointment when the person walking up to me is unfamiliar and not…
Yeah, okay. I know why.
It’s been two weeks since Hendrix walked out of my office.
It’s been two weeks since he made it abundantly clear that if I took this job, he and I would be nothing more than acquaintances. And I should be relieved, right? I’m the one who just got out of a messy divorce and am definitely not ready to date.
Still, the brushoff he gave me hurts.
More than I like to admit.
“Hey.” Mystery man offers his hand. He’s tall, and I have to crane my neck up to look at him. His dark-brown eyes match his skin tone, and his smile is breathtaking. “I’m Ridge, the band’s manager.”
“Yes, we’ve chatted through email.” I nod, shaking his hand. “Please call me Zara. It’s nice to finally meet you, and thanks for all your help with the supplies. I know it was a lot in a short amount of time.”
Ridge emailed me about a week ago, asking me to make a list of medical equipment, supplies, and drugs that I would need.
I was thorough.
“That? That was nothing compared to some of the things I’ve had to procure.” He chuckles, then hands a wad of cash to the driver before steering me away.
I try not to calculate how much that must have been.
We walk side by side as he asks about my drive over. We both commiserate about the LA traffic, and I realize that his voice has a slight British accent. Has he lived here so long that he’s lost it, or does he purposely try to mask it?
Interesting.
When we reach the plane, he lets me go first. It’s one of those times when I truly wish male chivalry were dead because I would love to have someone to hide behind right now.
But I did not endure a million years of school, a hellish divorce, and two weeks of pep talks to turn back now.
Let’s do this.
What’s the first thing I do when I step onto the private plane filled with mega hot rock stars?
I trip.
And it’s not the kind where you quickly catch yourself before anyone notices. No, this is the kind of fall that makes your arms flail and people gasp. It’s the attention-grabbing, cheeks-heating kind of fall.
I take one step forward, and I don’t know if it’s the ridiculously plush carpet or if the gods themselves have chosen to smite me from the heavens. But suddenly, my shoe catches on something, and I’m falling face-first into—a chest?
“Nice entrance, Cupid.”
I freeze because, of course, it’s him. It couldn’t be a random assistant or a flight attendant.
