Page 69 of Better than Famous

SUTTON

The Gulfstream’s engines spooled down as the aircraft rolled to a stop on the private aviation tarmac. As I unbuckled my seatbelt, heat rippled off the asphalt of Key West International Airport, distorting the chain-link fence bordering the private terminal. I sighed as a small crowd pressed against the wire barrier. The morning broadcast in New York had clearly detonated across the news cycle, transforming my unannounced arrival into a major local event. Camera flashes popped in the humid late-afternoon haze. Walking through that building would invite an absolute mob scene.

A midnight-blue 1978 Ford F-250 bypassed the terminal completely. The heavy truck cleared the security checkpoint and rolled directly onto the hot tarmac. The vehicle stopped a few yards from the wing of the jet. The cabin door opened with a hydraulic hiss, lowering the airstairs to the pavement. Ben didn’t wait for me to descend. He took the metal steps two at a time. Ducking his head to clear the doorframe, he stepped into the plush, climate-controlled interior of the aircraft. He wore faded jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, his scuffed leather work boots planting firmly on the luxury carpet.

The contrast between the pristine cabin and the rugged, blue-collar reality of the man completely hijacked my breath. "Ben."

He closed the distance between us in a few strides. Wrapping his solid arms around my waist, he hauled me flush against his chest. His mouth crashed down on mine in a fierce, desperate, and completely possessive kiss. The polished veneer of the morning show, the sterile studios, and the lingering adrenaline of the flight all fled from me. My hands tangled in his thick hair. He tasted like salt air and coffee, and he anchored me to the earth with the sheer, immovable force of his body.

Breaking the kiss, he kept his arms locked tight around my back. His chest heaved against mine as he buried his face in the curve of my neck. "You’re actually here."

"I told you I was coming."

"I am never letting you out of my sight again." Ben pressed a hard kiss to my jawline before stepping back just enough to look me in the eye. "Let’s grab your bag. We’re going home."

He picked up my suitcase from the leather seat. Guiding me by the hand, we descended the airstairs into the suffocating, glorious heat of the Florida Keys. The paparazzi shouted from the distant fence, their voices drowned out by the roar of commercial jets taking off on the main runway. Ben tossed my Louis Vuitton bag into the bed of the truck and opened the passenger door. As I climbed into the high cab, the familiar scent of old leather and his cedar soap immediately settled my racing pulse. He rounded the hood, hopped into the driver’s seat, and cranked the diesel engine.

We drove out of the airport, and after several seemingly random turns to lose the press trying to follow, merged onto the Overseas Highway. Ben rolled the windows down. The humid, salty ocean breeze whipped through the cab, tearing my hair out of its neat, professional styling. Helping it along, I ran my hands through it and completely freed the blonde tresses. Sitting in the passenger seat, I let the golden hour sun warm my face.

Ben reached across the wide center console and laced his calloused fingers tightly through mine. He kept his eyes on the road, navigating the narrow bridge connecting the islands. "How are you holding up? Nuking your ex-husband on live television must take a lot of energy."

"I feel lighter than air." Resting my head against the seat back, a genuine, unburdened smile stretched across my mouth. "Nash called me right after I hung up with you this morning."

Ben’s hand tightened on the wheel. "He called you?"

"Yes. He tried one last power play. It didn’t work. I laid out the facts in no uncertain terms."

The memory of the phone call played back through my mind. I had been sitting in the green room of the studio, waiting for Mindy to finalize the travel logistics when I answered his call with a groan.

“Sutton, sweetness,” Nash sighed through the speaker, his tone dripping with weaponized patience. “That little performance was cute. But television stunts don’t change the facts. I have three doctors willing to testify you’re suffering a psychological break. You’re unstable. You can’t possibly win a protracted legal war against me.”

I gripped the phone, staring at my reflection in the makeup mirror. The woman looking back didn’t flinch. “I don’t need a protracted legal war. I destroyed your narrative in twenty minutes.”

“The public forgets. My lawyers don’t.”

“Then tell your lawyers to tune in to the rival networks tomorrow morning.” I kept my voice dead level. “If that conservatorship petition isn’t withdrawn by noon, I’m booking three more interviews. And I won’t talk about my mental health. I’ll be detailing exactly how you misappropriated my touring revenue over the last five years. I have the receipts, Nash. Let’s see how the label executives feel about your producing career when they realize you’ve been cooking the books.”

I smiled grimly as a heavy, charged silence fell over the line. The patronizing warmth completely evaporated.

“You wouldn’t,” he hissed, the mask finally slipping.

“Try me. Noon today. Goodbye, Nash.”

I blinked, pulling myself out of the flashback, and looked at the man driving the truck. I squeezed Ben’s hand. "Margaret called me an hour later. He withdrew the petition and she and my other lawyers are dismantling the rest of his contracts as we speak. The war is effectively over.”

"You fought a hell of a battle." Ben squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing the knuckles. "My family all stopped breathing during the interview."

"I had an excellent reason to fight."

Turquoise water stretched out endlessly on either side of the highway. The sprawling mansions of Los Angeles had never offered this kind of expansive, untamed beauty. The rhythmic thumping of the tires over the bridge joints provided a comforting soundtrack. Traveling down this road no longer felt like a desperate escape. It was simply an arrival.

The sunset painted the sky in brilliant strokes of tangerine and bruised purple by the time the truck turned onto the property of Sunset Siesta Resort. Crisp white buildings with sharp trim glowed against the darkening horizon, a beautiful execution of coastal chic. Passing the main lobby, a sprawling free-form pool came into view. Sleek cabanas lined a custom concrete deck beautifully embossed with palm fronds.

"This place is incredible." I admired the lush landscaping and artfully lit pathways as we rolled past.

"Chase and Harper worked their asses off," Ben agreed.

Four stunning luxury bungalows sat nestled near the tree line, overlooking the water and beach. Outdoor showers and high-end teak finishes completed the private, upscale island aesthetic. They looked like something from a multi-million-dollar magazine spread.