Page 22 of Sealing the Deal

FLIC

FLIC: OMG I’m on an actual private jet!!!!!

IZZY: Have fun!

FLIC: I absolutely will not.

DYLAN: Don’t let Ashborne mess you around. And if he does, tell him I’ll personally introduce his face to the business end of a shovel.

FLIC: Noted. Will keep shovel-threat in back pocket.

OK, so I said I wouldn’t enjoy a single moment of spending time with Grayson Ashborne, but sitting on a private jet is actually pretty freaking exciting. The cabin is all cream leather and dark wood, and soft lighting that makes the whole place glow like a billionaire’s Pinterest board. Everything shines. Even the seatbelt buckle looks like it cost a small fortune. It’s quiet too. If it wasn’t for the endless blue sky and a quilt of clouds drifting far, far below, I wouldn’t even know we were thirty thousand feet in the air.

I thought the chauffeured car Grayson sent to pick me up was ridiculous, but this is a whole new tax bracket of ridiculous. I run my hand across the armrest. It’s smooth to touch and was probably hand-conditioned by a guy named Lars who only works on Tuesdays.

I glance down at my clothes—bright red Stormhawks jersey, tight black jeans, and biker boots—and feel stupidly underdressed. Sure, we’re heading to Buffalo for the wildcard playoff game, but I look like I should be behind my bar rather than flying private. Whatever. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.

At the back of the cabin, Grayson sits with his phone pressed to his ear, talking quietly. He has two laptops open in front of him, and his brow is drawn tight, like he’s personally carrying the weight of the entire Eastern Seaboard. Even stressed, he looks good. Damn him. He’s wearing jeans—dark, expensive, of course—and a charcoal cashmere sweater that fits him absurdly well. Broad chest, strong shoulders (thanks, Candy), sleeves pushed up his forearms. The dark sneakers are designer and the whole look screams money, but at least he doesn’t look like an asshole in a tailored power suit today. Just an asshole. Progress.

“Miss Moore?”

I look up to see the steward, who introduced himself as Nicholas earlier, smiling warmly. He looks around my age and has neat blond hair and a fitted navy polo with the Grayson Global logo stitched over his chest, and the cleanest beige chinos I’ve ever seen.

“Please call me Flic. Everyone does.”

“OK, Flic. I’m just checking you’re comfortable,” he says. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“A coffee would be great, please,” I reply.

“Of course. What kind?”

I can’t resist. “Any chance of an oat milk latte with two shots of caramel?”

His brows lift.

“I’m kidding,” I add quickly. “Anything is fine. Thank you.”

He laughs. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s a little over three hours to Buffalo. You might want to relax and watch a movie.”

I open my mouth to tell him I don’t see a TV anywhere, when he taps a discreet button on the armrest. A second later, a screen rises smoothly from the side of my seat.

“Oh,” I breathe. “OK, that’s… cool.”

“It’s touchscreen and has all the latest movies,” Nicholas says. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

He walks away, and I scroll through the selection. Nicholas wasn’t kidding. There’s a Tom Cruise movie that literally came out in theaters last week. But nothing catches my attention.

I fidget. Tap my fingers. Shift in my seat. Stare out at the endless sky. “Relax” isn’t a word in my vocabulary. Sitting still might actually be a form of psychological torture. My gaze drifts to Grayson’s laptops. I almost envy the work he’s buried in. I wish I’d brought my own so I could pull up The Hay Barn’s accounts and start planning the changes I can finally make when rent isn’t a noose around my neck.

I can’t remember the last time I sat still and alone. Even at Oakwood Ranch, I throw myself into helping Izzy and Dylan with the horses, or Mama in her kitchen, or playing with Mad. There’s always someone to talk to, something to do. And when I’m alone in the city, there’s always a beer tap to repair or something that needs to be cleaned or restocked. I’m always working. Always moving. Until I hit my apartment, too tired for anything but sleep. Then I get up the next day and do it all again.

And now I’m on a jet, thirty thousand feet in the air, with nothing but clouds, quiet, and an arrogant asshole I’m pretending I don’t notice. What the hell am I doing here? The task ahead feels suddenly impossible. It’s like Mama said—if I can’t convince the fans that Grayson isn’t enemy number one, their anger toward him could spill over onto me. It wouldn’t just be my regulars I’d be worrying about then; it would be a full-on boycott of The Hay Barn. The thought hits hard, a reminder of exactly why I’m here. Not just for myself and my bar, but to help my team. To help my family. To show Grayson that Denver and the Stormhawks matter.

At least a direct plea from the team has calmed the fans enough to put a hold on any more protests, even if the hate toward Grayson on the Red Zone is still going strong. I’m no longer adding my own comments, but I’m still a long way off from defending him. I wonder if he’s seen the meme of him getting chased across the field by a giant mascot who punts him straight into next week. The internet has truly outdone itself.

My thoughts drag back to my bar and the nagging unease that I should be there, not leaving it to Paul to run. The bartender I’d worked with a few years ago had been focused and dedicated. But Paul was late this morning and seemed distracted and disheveled in a gray hooded sweatshirt and a scraggly beard. I was never going to be happy leaving the bar, but I wish I could feel like I trust him more than I do. A lot of fans won’t be making the trip to Buffalo today, and while plenty will turn the game into a family event at home, just as many will end up at bars like mine, crowding around the big screen. They’re my regulars, and the thought of something going wrong for them twists in my gut like I swallowed a handful of gravel.