Playing with Mr. Grant (The Men #10)

Relief floods my veins. I won’t allow the next clap to catch me off guard. I’ll be prepared.

I swipe another raindrop from my cheek as a crack of lightning forks across the ominous gray sky. The storm was forecast to hit Friday—today.That Friday feeling.That’s what Dad calls it when I’m in a rush for the weekend to start. We’re going to the estate this weekend. I can see the lilies. They’ll be in full bloom. The thought distracts me for a blissful moment.

Wait. It’s quiet.

I crane my neck to search the sky.

They’ve moved away.The storm’s making them leave.

I’m alone.

Again.

So close.

Chapter 1

Jet

“Too close.” I drummy fingers against the cool glass of the meeting room table.

My CFO, Hayden, a man who rarely looks flustered, tugs at his tie.

He’s rattled, which means we aren’t only too close, we’re toofuckingclose.

“How long?” I ask, my gut twisting.

“Two, three months, max.” He reaches for his glass of water with a trembling hand, draining it quickly before it clatters against the table. “Things have been bad before, Jet, but—”

“It’s not over yet.” I run my tongue over my teeth as I stare past his head, through the glass wall at the staff working away, oblivious to our crisis meeting.

“It’s thirty percent of the fleet.”

I bristle, cracking my neck. I’ve done the fucking math.

“Thirty-one,” I mutter. “Thirty-one percent.”

Hayden’s eyes, red-rimmed from the late nights we’ve pulled this week, meet mine. Despite all the figures we’ve crunched, we keep coming back to the same number.

Thirty-one percent.

It’s enough to fold the entire operation. What use is an airline if its planes can’t fly?

“We made some savings with the fuel hedging, but…”

Hayden refills his glass instead of completing his sentence. He knows that deal means shit if we don’t have planes to put the fuel in.

“I’ll speak to Rich.” Tension tightens my jaw. Going from LA to London seems wrong when my staff need me here.

“Logan Rich?”

“His biofuel engines have already been approved for the aircraft’s type rating. If we can get them refitted when they’re in for maintenance, we might be able to run a full operation.”

His eyes brighten for the first time in days. “I’ll speak to the contracts department. Biofuel will mean a lower cost per seat. If we can run at a lower rate, then…” He’s already typing on his laptop, his fingers flying over the keys.

“Good.” I stand, buttoning my jacket. “I’ll get Annabelle to clear my schedule for a few days. I shouldn’t be long in London.”

I walk through the open-plan office, tipping my chin in terse greeting to the heads that turn my way.