chapter 7
“Urgh.” Brighton woke up a few hours later, completely disoriented. Her mouth—her entire head, really—tasted like vinegar. She heard the rustle of a fast-food wrapper when she shifted her feet. Her wool blazer smelled faintly of cigarettes and her skirt was bunched up around her thighs.
But she was covered in a soft, featherweight cashmere blanket. Her head rested on a fluffy pillow. She was stretched out in all her hungover glory on the leather seats of Jake Sorensen’s private jet.
She was . . . married?
She lifted her head and propped herself up on her elbows, blinking as the plane’s interior came into focus through the dim lighting. Jake was slouched on the other side of the cabin, gazing down at the screen of a laptop computer.
She licked her lips and cleared her throat, but her voice still sounded like she’d been singing karaoke at the top of her lungs all night. “Hey.”
“You’re awake.” He pointed out a bottle of water on the table next to her. “Hydrate.”
“I feel like . . .” She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I’d say I haven’t felt this hungover since college, but I’ve never felt this hungover, ever.” She paused to gulp some of the cool, fresh water. “Did we . . . did we go through with it?”
“We did.” He closed the laptop and gave her his full attention, but the sensual smolder had been replaced with an almost detached friendliness. Something had happened between pulling up to the drive-through chapel and now; they were no longer boozy partners in crime. Now they were two adults who had just met.
Who happened to be married.
“Did we kiss?” she asked.
He furrowed his brow. “I think so. Right after I introduced the officiant to Benjamin Franklin and right before you passed out.”
She covered her lips with her hand. “How was it?”
“Brief. Official. Wine-flavored.”
She tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “How are you still awake?”
He shrugged. “I’m supposed to be looking over some work documents.”
“You’re working.” The reality of everything they’d done slammed into her. “It’s our wedding night and you’re working? That’s not very indolent of you.”
“I’m supposed to be looking over some documents,” he clarified. “I’m actually watching a documentary on giant radioactive wolves.”
Brighton scrambled into a sitting position. “Like, science fiction?”
“No, they’re real. It’s about what happened to the wildlife at the abandoned Chernobyl site.”
“Is that . . . related to your job?”
“Not even remotely.”
“Okay.” She blinked a few times. “You like nature documentaries?”
“I do when they’re about radioactive wolves.” He lifted the shade so she could see the golden morning sunlight. “We won’t be landing for another hour. You can go back to sleep, if you want.”
“What kind of work do you do that you can afford all this?” she rasped. “Private jets and teams of people to do your bidding wherever you go?”
He didn’t reply. She could hear the steady drone of the engines and the hiss of air from the overhead vents.
Just when she started to wonder if she’d inadvertently offended him, he asked, “Do you like to talk about your job when you’re hanging out at bars or flying to Vegas?”
“No,” Brighton admitted. “But that’s because my work is really boring.”
He nodded. “My work is really boring, too.”
“Boring and completely legal . . . right?” She laced her hands together and squeezed.
“Completely,” he assured her.
“It better be. Because, so help me, if I find out later that you’re some sort of drug dealer or Mafia kingpin, I’m going to be pissed.”
“If I were into drugs or organized crime, I wouldn’t be spending my summers in Black Dog Bay.” The warmth had returned to his voice and his eyes. “Everybody knows everything about everybody else, and they all talk.”
“Good. I just want to make sure you don’t have a criminal past. Or a criminal present, for that matter.”
He mirrored her solemn expression. “If it makes you feel better, a wife cannot be forced to testify against her husband. So if I were a criminal, marrying me is actually reducing your odds of getting caught up in all the legal proceedings.”
Her eyes widened and her palms started to sweat. “The fact that you know that does not make me feel better.”
“Relax. I’m just torturing you.”
“Well, knock it off and reassure me that cocaine and arms trafficking didn’t pay for this plane.”
He finally relented. “Sand paid for this plane.”
“What?”
“Sand, concrete, and gravel.”
“Elaborate, please.”
“I started out supplying concrete for construction contracts.” He looked and sounded completely bored with this topic of conversation. “That’s how I made my first million.”
“First million’s the hardest, right?” Brighton paused. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Then I branched into gravel, and now I supply sand for corporate and military contracting jobs in the Middle East. The end.”
“You send sand to the Middle East. Like, the desert?”
Jake nodded. “The sand over there is too fine for sandblasting concrete. We use a proprietary processing method and ship it over.”
“You built this”—she gestured to the cashmere and the polished walnut panels and the leather upholstery—“out of sand and gravel. That’s kind of . . .”
“Redneck. I know.”
Where had that come from? “‘Redneck’ is not the word I would use to describe you.”
He watched her expression. “Disappointed I’m not part of a seedy underworld syndicate?”
“No,” she said, a bit too quickly.
“What about you?” he countered. “How do I know you don’t have a criminal past?”
“Seriously?” She glanced down at her outfit. “Look at me.”
“I’m looking. The suit and the pearls could be a façade.”
“They’re not.”
“For all I know, you could be an undercover cop or a Russian spy.”
“No.” She sighed. “I am exactly as buttoned-up and responsible as I look.”
“You just flew off to Vegas to marry a stranger.”
“A stranger who doesn’t have a criminal past or a loan shark after him.” She snuggled back into her cashmere cocoon. “Ooh, so rebellious.”
He laughed and closed the window shade. “Baby steps.”
Just as she was drifting back to sleep, Brighton sat up straight, gasping. “Kira.”
“Who?” Jake asked.
“My friend Kira. I was at the bar with her last night. She has no idea what happened to me.” Brighton scrambled to straighten her skirt and grab her purse. “I need to call her right now. Can I use my cell in flight?”
“Sure.”
Brighton entered her password to unlock her phone, then gasped as she looked at the image on the screen. “Oh no. Oh no no no.”
“What?” Jake moved to sit next to her. He still smelled freshly laundered, with just a hint of woodsy cologne. It was like the laws of physics and hangovers didn’t apply to him.
“I texted Colin last night.” She felt light-headed. “After the drive-through. I don’t remember any of this, but the time stamp says one a.m. Why didn’t someone take away my phone?”
“Because you’re a professional woman who’s clearly capable of making her own decisions.”
“What have I done? What have I done?” Brighton scrolled through the texts she had sent to her ex.
All twenty-eight of them.
Photos of the limo.
Photos of the private jet.
Photos of Brighton and Jake holding up the freshly signed marriage certificate and a bottle of champagne.
“Oh my God,” Brighton whispered. “I sent these to my fiancé. I mean, my ex-fiancé.”
Jake started laughing. “When did we get another bottle of champagne?”
And then, as if the pictures weren’t bad enough, Brighton noticed the typo – and autocorrect-riddled captions she’d included with each photo:
Floying commercial is so pleb
Look at the smolder on this guy
Not to mention the hair
It’s like he’s the lost Hemsworth brother
Marrying a Stranger: I WIN!!!!!!
“I’m dying.” She pulled the blanket over her head. “I’m dead. How will I ever go back to New Jersey?”
“You know what the great thing is about marrying me?” Jake said. “You don’t have to.”
Brighton yanked the blanket down. “Of course I do. What about my job?”
“Quit,” he suggested. “It’s your screw-up summer, remember?”
“Screwing up my summer is one thing, but I don’t want to screw up my whole life.”
He gave her an appraising look. “I’m willing to bet you have some vacation days stored up.”
“Um. Maybe.” Three years’ worth. Plus sick days. Plus personal days.
“Then take some time off.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” But she did know. She was afraid. Afraid that if she took a break, her boss and her coworkers would realize that she wasn’t indispensable. And she’d spend her vacation time doing . . . what? Admitting that she had no interests outside of work and helping her boyfriend study contract law?
“Technically, you’re on your honeymoon,” Jake said. And then he kissed her. Slow and soft and thorough; confident but unhurried.
When he finally tapered off, she hung on to his jacket with both hands. She wasn’t thinking about work or the future or the potential fallout from her ill-advised texts. She wasn’t thinking about anything. She could be content up here in the clouds, with cashmere and champagne and the lost Hemsworth brother, for eternity.
“Okay.” She trailed her fingers along his cheek. “I’ll take two weeks off.”
Jake pulled her closer and kissed her again. “Get ready for the best two weeks of your life.”