Page 42 of Ice Ice Maybe
I emerged from the bathroom and said, “Your turn for teeth-brushing duty. Oh, and don’t forget to wear yourSimpson’sT-shirt to bed.”
“You still haven’t told me why you are so obsessed with me wearing it,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously. “I want to know.”
“It’s designer sleepwear—all the rage in Milan,” I quipped. “Wear it with pride.”
“I’m going to find out,” she said, not believing me for a second, then disappearing inside the bathroom.
I changed and hopped into bed, trying to look nonchalant with my book. When she finally reappeared, the shirt hung adorably large on her. I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“Happy now?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“Ecstatic,” I replied, extremely pleased with my plan to avoid seeing her in some sexy lingerie.
“Whatever …” As Zena slid into bed and adjusted her pillow, the T-shirt rode up her legs like a squirrel scaling a tree.
My eyes betrayed me, refusing to look away.
“Can I help you with something?” Zena teased, catching my laser-focused eyes.
“Just admiring the, uh, stitching,” I stammered.
“You’re still a terrible liar,” she said.
“The worst,” I admitted as her phone buzzed.
Zena read a text message, and her eyebrows furrowed. She glanced over at me, opening her mouth and closing it.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“It’s Dad again,” she said with a shrug. “And I’m afraid I have some good news and some bad news.”
“Hit me with the good news first,” I said.
“Dad’s thrilled with the result of the game,” she said. “He said to pat yourself on the back for a job well done. Also, the couple sitting next to them shared the story of the tickets and couldn’t stop talking about us.”
“Okay, and the bad news?” I asked, bracing myself.
“My parents are going to be joining us for the next game in Nashville,” Zena said.
I nodded, blinking, thinking about it. “Honestly, I was expecting a lot worse news than that. In the grand scheme of things, that’s really not so bad at all.”
“I wasn’t finished,” she said.
“Oh …” I swallowed hard, not liking the sound of that. “What else is there?”
Zena wrinkled her nose. “We’re going to be staying with them in their suite.”
Chapter Twelve
Zena
As our private jet soared smoothly toward Nashville, the atmosphere inside the cabin was more volatile than an unbalanced washing machine during a spin cycle. It had to be the most awkward flight I’d ever experienced, sitting eight inches from Nolan, but finding it impossible to have a decent conversation with him.
Dad’s voice on the phone—sharp, irritated, and loud—cut through the air for what felt like the hundredth time. Mom shot me another sympathetic glance. She looked as thrilled about his business call marathon as I felt. And embarrassed, considering we had a guest onboard with us.
“I don’t care if you have to carry the package barefoot on broken glass through a tornado, it better make it to Los Angeles by the end of the day or you’ll be hearing from me again! Trust me, you won’t like that call because it will be your last.” He disconnected the call and took a sip of his pre-lunch whiskey, before calling someone else and tearing into them.
I wished so badly that it was only me and Nolan on this flight. We’d been having such a great time together in Las Vegas, and now it felt like we’d hit pause on the fun. We couldn’t chat. We couldn’t flirt. We couldn’t do anything. Trapped in this flyingpressure cooker of parental supervision and business calls, I longed for that carefree atmosphere.
