Come Fly With Me (2 page)

“Of course, darling.” Monica’s bright blue gaze was sharp and radiated understanding, but she said nothing more as she reached for a large tray stacked on the far counter. “I thought you could use some help with the champagne. The natives are getting restless out there.”

Grier glanced at the clock and saw she had less than ten minutes to go until the new year.

An unexpected wave of anticipation swamped her, even as she knew her life was so far from figured out,
she might as well have been standing on Fifth Avenue, naked and wearing a sign:
WILL WORK FOR ANSWERS
.

Yet that stubborn spark of hope persisted.

Last year she thought she had it all figured out, and through the ensuing months she’d come to realize she understood almost nothing.

But she did understand
herself
a hell of a lot better and that had to count for something.

Monica handed Grier one of the two trays set aside for champagne and busied herself arranging glasses. “Your mother said your friend Sloan was up in Alaska with you.”

A memory of her best friend bundled head to toe in a quilted coat made Grier smile. “It was nice to have her there for a few weeks.”

“And she’s getting married?” Although Monica’s voice was casual, Grier sensed something she couldn’t quite put her finger on hovering beneath the question. “To the town lawyer, right?”

“Yes, to Walker Montgomery.”

“Isn’t he your lawyer, too?”

Grier busied herself with her own tray, forcing Monica to ask the questions. “He is.”

“How’s that all going? You know your mother—she doesn’t say much. I swear, she’s been rattling on about this party for a month and there just hasn’t been room to talk about anything else. I’ve never been so glad to ring in a new year.”

Do I ever know my mother,
Grier thought to herself. Patrice Thompson was a piece of work. One of New York’s most well-established blue bloods—“Patty-cakes” to
all who knew and loved her—she wouldn’t deign to discuss anything that delved deeper than surface matters. Or involved complicated emotions. Or even remotely indicated she and her daughter had a family secret. No, she would never touch such a potential scandal—even if it left her at odds with her only daughter.

“It’s moving slowly.”

Monica’s smile was comforting when she spoke. “A side product of all that cold weather?”

The champagne flutes sat in tidy rows on her tray, but Grier still fiddled with them to make the rows perfect. “More like a half sister who doesn’t want me there and who’s contesting the will.”

“Grier.” Monica’s concerned tone boiled over to something unmistakably possessive as she pulled her into a hug. “I had no idea.”

Grier couldn’t ignore the warmth—or the comfort—of the embrace that enveloped her even through the cool sequins of Monica’s dress. “Of course not. It’s not like Mom to share that sort of thing.”

“Your mother is reserved, darling. You know that.”

It was an oft-repeated phrase throughout her childhood and Grier couldn’t help but hear it as a cop-out. “Reserved” was an excuse, a way of interacting with people that allowed a person to skip over the hard parts of life with a stoic demeanor and an unwillingness to acknowledge anything was wrong.

A loud ding broke the moment as the buzzer on her phone sounded. She and Monica turned at the same time to look at where it lay on the counter.

Suddenly Grier was swamped by a new emotion as
she read the text that had appeared on the smooth screen.

A sly smile lit Monica’s face and Grier knew she’d seen the message. “That’s a rather bold way to wish someone a happy new year.”

Grier reached for the phone and turned it facedown on the counter. “It’s nothing.”

Monica’s smile only grew broader. “You sure about that? Because that sounds like unfinished business to me. And I’ve found in my lengthy observations of the males of our species that unfinished business is a rather enjoyable pastime.”

“It’s really nothing.”

“Actually, my dear”—Monica reached over and ran a hand down her back—“that blush riding high on your cheeks suggests otherwise. But I also understand the need to keep a secret or two.”

When Grier didn’t say anything, Monica added, “It also seems like a lovely way to ring in a new year. Text messages full of promise and, if I’m not mistaken, perhaps passion and determination.”

With that, Monica picked up her tray of champagne and headed through the swinging doors and into the party. Grier reached for the phone, intent on putting it into her pocket before grabbing the tray, but couldn’t resist one more glance at the message.

Mick.

On a soft sigh, Grier followed Monica’s path through the swinging doors. She couldn’t quite muster up the same degree of revelry as the other partygoers, but she had to admit that her spirits were higher than when she’d walked into the kitchen to pour the champagne.

After the year she’d had, she barely thought herself capable of feeling anything. Yet just the thought of him—all six feet two inches of rugged Alaskan male—made her body quiver as something close to anticipation hummed in her veins.

He was the one thing she missed from her stay in Indigo, and even after time away and the distance between them, her powerful response to him had her body growing warm and her breath catching in her chest.

A loud burst of laughter interrupted her thoughts and she lifted her champagne flute to match the other partygoers.

If she touched the phone in her pocket as the entire room screamed, “Happy New Year!” well, that would be her little secret.

That stubborn little spark of hope lit once more.

Perhaps the new year could hold something worth looking forward to—something more than the heartache of sorting through the mess her father had left for her in Indigo.

Maybe it was time Grier Thompson, New York blue blood, acted on a bit of her reckless Alaskan roots.

*    *    *

The first thing Grier saw as she stepped off the elevator the following morning was Sloan. She was perpetually stunning, with a long, lean, willowy frame and blond hair that artfully fell around her shoulders. Grier knew if she didn’t love her so much, she’d hate her on sight.

Just on principle.

Fortunately, she not only loved Sloan McKinley to pieces, but she was exceedingly happy to see that her friend’s normally ethereal beauty had morphed into something even lovelier.

She held the beauty of a woman in love.

The object of her best friend’s affection, Walker Montgomery, moved up behind Sloan to reach for Grier’s bags. “Happy New Year, Grier.” He bussed her cheek with a quick kiss before eyeing the roll-aboard suitcase and oversized tote.

“This is all you have?”

“Yep.” She squeezed Sloan’s hand before dropping it to turn toward Walker. “Let me guess. There are at least four pieces of luggage in that car out there”—she pointed toward the front door of her mother’s apartment building—“as well as her full carry-on allotment.”

“Are you actually siding with him?” Sloan crossed her arms. “What happened to the unbreakable bonds of sisterhood? Besides, I had to bring some stuff back for the move.”

“Because Armani is so incredibly necessary in the middle of Alaska,” Walker muttered in a whispered voice that no one missed.

“Exactly,” Sloan hollered at his retreating back before turning toward Grier with a big smile. “If he weren’t so mind-numbingly hot, I know I’d have a better comeback than that.”

Grier wrapped an arm around Sloan’s waist as they started for the door. “Your brains are just scrambled.”

“I’m not that far gone.” Sloan squeezed back before dropping her arm to walk through the door the doorman held wide.

“Oh, I don’t know—your lipstick is awfully smudged, suggesting an arduous kissing session on the car ride over here.”

Sloan’s gasp only made the high five Grier shared with her doorman, Bart, that much sweeter as he followed them both out onto the sidewalk.

Bart helped Walker deal with the luggage and within moments they were headed for the airport.

“Your mom didn’t come down. Is everything all right?”

The complete absence of any attempt to couch her question in a casual offering was appreciated and Grier led with a small sigh. “We said our good-byes this morning. She’s been seeing someone and he invited her up to Vermont for a few days of skiing.”

“How charming.”

“Sloan.” Walker nudged her knee.

“Don’t worry about it, Walker.” Grier waved a hand. “Sloan’s tone always smacks of judgment and derision when she talks about my mother. And since she’s the only person I know who will actually be honest about it, I can’t quite fault her for it.”

“It’s not judgment and derision,” Sloan said, jumping in. “It’s just annoyed puzzlement. And it’s not like my mother’s a giant picnic, either. I just think Patty-cakes could be a wee bit more sympathetic to your plight at the moment.”

Grier didn’t miss Walker’s narrowed eyes, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. “But if she were sympathetic, it would mean acknowledging she had sex with an Alaskan pipeline worker and I was the result.”

“Has she even talked about it?”

“Nope.” Grier played with the small fringe on the border of her sweater. “You’d think I was immaculately conceived.”

“So for the last eight days you’ve gotten nothing out of her?”

“She’s locked up tighter than a drum and that’s after several sessions of beating around the bush and two very pointed requests for information.”

Since she’d been tired of talking about her mother for the majority of her adult life, Grier leaped on the topic that would most assuredly switch the tone of the conversation.

“Did you set the date?”

Sloan’s adoring glance toward Walker gave away the answer before either of them spoke. “We ultimately settled on two dates. There’s no way half of Scarsdale’s headed to Alaska for a wedding. Besides, I like the residents of Indigo far too much to ask them to house the equivalent of rich aliens for a week. So we’re doing it here. Labor Day weekend.”

“What no one here knows, however”—Walker
leaned forward on a conspiratorial whisper—“is that the real ceremony will take place in Indigo over the Fourth of July.”

“Your mother knows this?”

“Hell no.” Sloan flopped back against the seat in mock horror. “She thinks she and my father are coming up for Walker’s annual family reunion.”

“I like it. Sneaky yet full of sweet and romantic overtones.”

“Walker and I get the wedding we want and my mother gets the wedding she wants.”

“It’s terrifyingly brilliant.” Grier smiled as Walker wrapped his arm around her friend and pressed a light kiss to her temple.

The confines of the car suddenly felt a bit too small and Grier found herself staring out the window as the driver took them across the bridge toward Queens. Her mind drifted to Mick—a situation that happened all too often—and she wondered what it would be like to see him again.

They’d barely spoken since early December, both keeping their distance since the night he caught her outside her father’s house, attempting to break in.

Unbidden, her thoughts filled with the powerful sensations she had felt that night. The feel of his large body boxing her in against the door and the understanding embedded deep in those clear blue eyes of his.

Her father’s house was off-limits to both her and her half sister, Kate, until their joined inheritance was sorted out, but she’d thought to sneak in a private
moment and look around. Even without her saying anything, Mick had understood.

He’d also stopped her from actually breaking and entering, but he hadn’t been able to stop the frustrated tears that had her running from her father’s house.

And from Mick.

In the ensuing weeks, they’d seen each other at a town hall meeting as well as at Walker’s grandmother’s holiday tree trimming, and Grier had thought maybe they could put what had happened behind them and move on. Just because they’d seen each other naked one night didn’t mean they couldn’t be cordial and pleasant to each other.

And then he’d gone and sent that text on New Year’s Eve and all her plans for easygoing and casual flew out the window.

Because no matter what she said and no matter how hard she tried to tell herself a relationship with Mick O’Shaughnessy was a bad idea, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from rereading that text message several times a day.

And she also hadn’t been quite able to dismiss the thought that a relationship with Mick O’Shaughnessy was a very, very good idea.

Mick walked through his preflight routine, checking things off on his clipboard and making notes. He saw the slightest beginnings of wear on a few parts and wanted to get them ordered and installed before slight wear became a big problem in the middle of winter.
And he also scratched a reminder to put the fuel order in since Jack never managed to remember that one.

As if he’d conjured him up, Jack’s large frame came into view as he rounded the side of the plane. “You put the fuel order in?” Mick asked.

A few shades of pink crept through Jack’s five o’clock shadow. “No.”

Mick waved his clipboard. “That’s why I just made a note of it. I swear, you have our taxes in a fucking month early, but you can’t remember that we actually need fuel to fly the planes.”

“Yeah, well, Uncle Sam won’t take too kindly to our ferrying passengers if we don’t pay our taxes, so I suppose that makes us even.”

Mick couldn’t hold back the good-natured smile. “So long as you remember there’s nothing to tax if we can’t get the plane off the ground.”

“I suppose that’s why we’re a good team.”

“That we are. The best.” Mick crossed the hangar toward a desk he kept in the corner and bent down toward the small fridge next to it. “You want anything?”

“Coke.”

Mick grabbed two and crossed toward an old sofa that had seen about twenty Alaska winters and dropped down on a worn cushion. “I’ve got about a half hour until I need to leave, and you look like you’ve got something on your mind.”