Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“I care about money,” I snap.
Henry laughs. “Right.”
“I do!”
“You’re right. You do care about money—you care about making sure Neil gives it to you so you can spend it on expensive shit.”
“I’ll have you know, when I turn thirty, Daddy plans to cut down my allowance. He just told me a couple days ago.”
Henry grins, all wolfish amusement. “Ohhh nooo,” he mocks. “So, you have three years left of bullshit spending. Though, if you were smart, you’d start saving instead of blowing it all, so by the time he cuts you off, you’d have a nice little nest egg.”
I huff. God, he’s annoying. Not because he’s wrong—he’s actually alarmingly right—but because I refuse to admit it. So, I choose to ignore him completely and bend down to unzip my suitcase and try to figure out what I can transfer into the ridiculously small fanny pack.
But my mind starts to spiral.
Just me and Henry freaking Callahan for three whole days?
That sounds crazy—and dangerous in ways I’m not sure I’m comfortable with. My whole body pulses with a mix of repressed arousal and adrenaline. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so well. And technically, this is money already spent, so it wouldn’t change anything if I didn’t go on this trip…
“I don’t think I should go,” I blurt, grasping for a way out. “Look at us. We’re already fighting. Three days alone? We’ll end up on some true crime podcast.”
Henry shrugs, completely unbothered. “Suit yourself.”
Then, because the universe is cruel, he casually grabs his parachute backpack, strapping it over his black utility pants and long-sleeved shirt.
I blink. Um…Excuse me? Why does he look like a goddamn action hero?
He is giving off gritty, Mission: Impossible stuntman, or an assassin who also models on the side, vibes. If I didn’t know it was Henry Callahan, I’d think a young Tom Cruise had arrived at this fucking hangar to film an action flick. Hell, even the yellow prop plane out in front of him looks like a Hollywood backdrop.
My brain misfires.
And his back. Holy shit, his back. The broad, muscular ridges flex as he tightens his straps, the whole “badass against a golden sun” aesthetic making my knees weak in protest.
Five-years-ago Avery would have already been sprinting toward him. Hell, three-years-ago Avery would have probably thrown herself at his feet and asked him to sweep her into some ridiculous adrenaline-fueled adventure.
And then there’s current Avery.
Avery, whose best friend is laid up puking her guts out. Whose parents are in Key West. Whose second-tier friends are all conveniently unavailable on New Years’ trips of their own.
Avery, who would be sitting alone in her apartment for days, doing absolutely nothing except regretting her ten-grand investment in this trip. And probably spending her late nights stalking Henry’s adrenaline-junkie thirst traps on Instagram like an idiot.
Ugh.
“Wait!” I yell impulsively, shoving two bikinis, my toothbrush, deodorant, and a hairbrush into the stupid fanny pack and abandoning my suitcase like it’s a corpse I no longer wish to claim.
Henry stops at the opening of the big garage-style door, the light of the sun backing him like he’s a freaking Marvel character.
“I’m coming,” I say begrudgingly. “Just let me go throw this bag back in my car.”
“Hell yeah, Ave.” Henry smiles, and I can just barely make it out among his features in the shadows.
I ditch my bag, run to leave my keys with the airport office so I don’t do something stupid like lose them while I’m gone, and rush after my brother’s superhero-looking best friend like a fool.
By the time I get back inside the hangar, Henry is smiling at me like only an insane person would do when they’re about to board a plane to jump out of said plane to get to their destination. “You ready to have the time of your life?” he questions and I snort.
“Trust me, Ave,” he adds with the kind of sexy wink I feel all the way to my toes. “You won’t regret it.”
Famous last words. Fucking famous. Last. Words.
Henry
A rush of sound surrounds us as the blades of the single prop engine get going at the front of the banana-colored plane that reads Hot Drop Buns on the side, and I slam the door hatch and lock it into place once Avery and I settle inside.
Mario, our pilot, a grizzled, no-nonsense guy with an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, waves a finger at the side of his head in a tight circle, signaling that we’re about to get moving. I nod, lifting a hand in acknowledgment.
Mario isn’t my usual pilot, but what he’s communicating isn’t exactly rocket science either. I’ve only used this aviation company a couple of times—my regular drop service doesn’t fly as far off the coast as we needed for this trip.
The flight to our private island is just over two hours, meaning a four-hour round trip after we bail. This company runs bigger planes with the fuel capacity and space we needed when we booked for our original group, and at the end of the day, it all functions the same.