Page 19 of Daddy's Game

Brock’s smile grew wider at my declaration. I couldn’t help but smile back. He really had one of those infectious grins. The laugh lines on his face only served to reinforce his mirth.

“You’ve made me a very happy man, Grace.”

“Yeah, well, I have to do what’s right for my center.”

“Of course,” he said with only a split second’s hesitation. His eyes might have held a touch of hurt, but it was hard to tell. Brock could go from emotive to inscrutable instantly. It made getting a read on him hard.

In spite of what I told him, I wasn’t just doing it for the center. A part of me was flattered that he would hit me with a surprise trip to Paris on our second date. I mean, it was an epic gesture and it did make me feel special, in spite of all of my—perfectly legit—reservations on the matter.

“Let’s go get you your toiletries and some spare clothing.”

Brock offered his hand to help me out of the limo. I took it, and he continued to hold my hand as we strode inside the terminal.

“Hey, where isyourluggage?” I asked.

“Already on the jet,” he replied.

It had been quite a while since I’d been to the airport. I discovered they had indeed expanded their shopping section, to include big name retailers as well as exclusive brands. I was surprised at the selection available.

“How long do we have?” I asked.

“Long enough that you don’t have to feel rushed,” Brock replied. “Thanks to the ever chaotic world of air travel, our takeoff time has been delayed. Even the richest man in the world can’t change some things.”

I cocked my eyebrow at his rare mention of limitations. It was unusual, but I also found it endearing. As much as I was turned on by his confident, almost cocky attitude, I did appreciate seeing a little humanity in there, too.

I’ve always been lucky that I can wear most clothes off the rack, but the staggering amount of options meant I was trying on a ton of clothes. I wound up with a pantsuit, a pair of leggings and an oversize shirt I could sleep in, some underwear—mostly practical but I did find a couple of lacy things I just couldn't resist—and the aforementioned toiletries.

By the time we finally headed for the plane, we both were burdened by a mass of bags in each hand. Brock never acted impatient or like it was a waste of his time. I decided that he was a good man to go shopping with—and not just because he was footing the bill.

I tried not to feel guilty or weird about him dropping so much money on me. Some of my outfits had been in the thousands of dollars range. I figured that for someone like him, dropping ten grand on clothing for his date was the equivalent of me spending fifty bucks or so.

I was surprised when we didn’t have to go through airport security. Brock chuckled and showed me his TSA express card.

“I travel so much, they just kind of wave me through at this point. It helps that I have a private jet, so I’m not a danger to anyone but myself.”

A private jet. Of course we were taking a private jet. He was a billionaire after all. Yet the idea hadn’t occurred to me.

When we stepped outside into the dying sunlight, I was shocked to find another car waiting to drive us to his private jet. I tried not to act too impressed, but it was damn hard. His jet was much bigger than I’d expected, with a silver chrome paint job that reflected the blue skies and the red sun in a brilliant display.

The interior proved just as fancy as the exterior. Tiffany lamps, rich carpeting that soaked up the tension from my feet, and seating you’d be more apt to find in a condo on the Upper East side than an airplane.

Once on board, I realized my belly was grumbling complaints about being empty. I had assumed we would go straight to dinner, not take a flight. Brock heard the loud gurgling and grinned as I flushed with embarrassment.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Duh,” I replied, still a bit humiliated by my growling stomach.

“Don’t worry, dinner will be served soon.”

“It will? There’s a kitchen on this aircraft?”

“Of course there is—and not just a place to reheat ready-made meals, either. Nothing but the best for my date.”

Again, I felt guilty about enjoying myself. Mostly I just kept thinking that it was all wrong. Brock’s more advanced age, the fact we were ostensibly enemies in our professional lives, and the fact he was spending so much money on our ultra luxurious date all combined was almost too much to take.

Then the first course arrived, an arugula salad with crumbled goat cheese, red onions, and what looked like pecan pieces with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. As soon as it was set before me, I pushed the salad away.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling bad. “I can’t eat this.”

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