As the minutes passed, the cabin remained empty. Maylee tried to finish her drink quickly, so she could be done before they took off, but it seemed that they weren’t in any particular kind of hurry. They were just . . . sitting here, waiting on Mr. Verdi. Maylee fished a piece of ice out of her glass and chewed on it, sucking the last of mojito off the cube.
Megan eventually returned and snagged Maylee’s glass with a smile. Before Maylee could protest, she was pouring another. Well, she could drink another one of those. It was pretty tasty with all that mint. The plane began to taxi down the runway just as she started to drink her new one, and Maylee chugged it, trying to finish it before they took off. That was just polite, right?
By the time she’d sucked down that second mojito, she was feeling a little . . . tipsy. Nothing ridiculous, just a little floaty and loose. It was probably because she’d drank them so fast. The plane stopped again, and waited.
Maylee peered out the window. She couldn’t see anything except the night sky and the lights on the runway. Why weren’t they getting into the air?
The attendant floated past again, and as Maylee watched, Megan went to the door at the back of the plane and knocked. “Ready to leave whenever you are, Mr. Verdi.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just swung back around to Maylee and smiled. “Another drink?”
“Oh, no,” Maylee said. “I couldn’t possibly. Thank you, though.”
Megan took the glass from her. “Go ahead and buckle up. We’ll be leaving as soon as Mr. Verdi is finished with his meeting.”
Maylee fumbled with her belt, snapping it at her waist and then tightening it. Anxiety began to gnaw at the pit of her stomach. She’d be meeting rich Mr. Verdi, and they’d be flying—both things that made her very, very nervous. Combined with the drinks, she rather felt like she was going to throw up.
Time for her pills.
She fished the bottle out of her purse and peered at the label, uncertain of how many to take. One or two? There was a bright yellow sticker on the side that said DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL but it was a mite too late for that, wasn’t it? She hurriedly popped one into her mouth, dry swallowing it.
Five minutes later, she felt nice.
So, so nice.
Mellow.
All floaty and wonderful.
Mmmm.
In a pleasant haze, she watched as Megan buckled herself in at the far end of the cabin and they both waited for Mr. Verdi to appear. Maylee blinked slowly, and that was rather fun, so she blinked again, watching her eyelashes descend.
Wow. Who knew eyelashes were so interesting?
“We might be another minute,” Megan said to her. “Can I get you anything else?”
Maylee beamed at her and gave her a thumbs up. One hardly seemed to convey how good she was feeling, so she thrust her other one into the air, too. “I’m wonderful. So, so wonderful.”
And she wagged her thumbs at the woman.
The smile on the attendant’s face faltered a little in its sincerity. “Um. All right. Just let me know if you need anything.”
Maylee thought for a moment, not an easy feat given the alcohol and pills. Then, she said, “Knitting.”
“I’m . . . sorry? I don’t think I caught that.”
She flapped her hands—a bit like a chicken, really—and said, “These are bored.”
“Bored?” Megan blinked at her. Hard.
“Yes. And my knitting is all tied up in my luggage.” Maylee made a sad face. “It’s probably lonely.” She stared down at her hands. “I bet it misses them.”
“Your suitcase is actually just up here,” Megan said, that curious look still on her face. “Do you want to get it?”
“Oh, that would be just peachy.” She stood up—or tried to, anyhow. She was still buckled in, and it knocked her back to her chair. Maylee began to giggle wildly. “Oopsie daisy.”
“I can get it for you,” Megan said quickly.
“That would be peachy, too,” Maylee said with a languid smile. “It’s in a side pocket.” Gosh, they were nice on private airplanes. She liked everyone here so much.
A moment later, Megan handed her the knitting, and she made a happy sound in her throat. So perfect. Now she could knit all the way to Bellissime. Maybe she’d knit a hat for her new employer. Wouldn’t he just love that? “Everyone likes hats,” she mumbled aloud to herself, and began to knit.
***
“If you get a chance to bail out early,” Jonathan said to Griffin over the phone, “you should really come out to Spain. They’ve found some interesting pottery shards at one site and a few new areas they’d like to excavate, but there’s permits to be filed and funding to be acquired, so nothing can really move ahead without you.”
Damn it. He really wanted to be there. The timing could not be worse. “It’ll just have to wait a few weeks. I’m afraid there’s no way I can leave early, short of insulting my entire family and offending the crown.”
“I do not envy you,” Jonathan said. “Tell you what. I’ll upload my photos online later tonight and you can get a glimpse of what I’m seeing here. I think you’ll like it. The canal system is so incredibly impressive. I’m told that the swampy grounds make it hell to excavate, but I think it just makes it all the more promising.”
“And we’re sure it’s Atlantis and not just Tarshish?”
“I don’t know. The lead on the project, Doctor DeWitt, says he’s uncovered something significant, but since you’re the benefactor, he won’t reveal it without you here.”
Griffin felt a little stab of pleasure at that, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Jonathan was one of his best friends, and trustworthy, but this project was Griffin’s baby. “I see. Like I said, it’ll have to wait a few weeks.”
“Cadiz isn’t that far away from Bellissime, is it? Can’t you just hop a plane and take a same-day flight?”
“You’ve never seen a royal schedule around one of these functions, have you?” Griffin asked drily.
“God no.”
“I’ll be lucky if I have an hour to myself.”
“Fuck, that sounds miserable.”
It did. That was why Griffin preferred minimal fuss when he was on his own, and why he preferred being on his own as much as possible. It was why he ‘made do’ with one assistant versus his mother’s forty-six staff.
There was a soft knock at the door. “Ready to leave whenever you are, Mr. Verdi,” the attendant said.
Griffin ignored it and continued talking to Jonathan for a few minutes more. He was jealous as hell that his friend got to poke around in the marshes of Spain for the next few weeks while Griffin had to dress up in starchy suits, kiss babies, and have his blasted photo taken eight hundred times a day.
Reese should have been Viscount Montagne Verdi, not Griffin. Reese loved people. Griffin could barely tolerate them.
When he could put off the inevitable no longer, Griffin ended the call with Jonathan, put away his laptop, and left his private room. He nodded at the attendant at the far end of the plane and sat in his seat, rubbing his face. He was looking forward to this about as much as one would look forward to a tooth extraction, or perhaps a vasectomy. A colonoscopy? He pondered a list of horrific things that could possibly be less painful than a week-long royal wedding.
He buckled his seat belt, closed his eyes and leaned back, and the plane began to taxi forward. Griffin kept his eyes closed, relaxing, as the plane ascended into the air, the roar of the engines drowning out everything but his own thoughts. Eventually the sound of the engines leveled out, and Griffin became aware of a new noise.
Clicking.
He frowned, opening his eyes just in time to see the flight attendant lean over his chair. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Verdi?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
She nodded and disappeared, and the clicking began again. He looked to his left. Nothing. Looked behind him.
And paused.
What on earth . . .
There was a
woman behind him. A blonde. And she was knitting.
That was . . . odd.
This had to be Hunter’s assistant. Gretchen had texted him last night and told him that she’d send her over to meet him at his plane. To be perfectly honest, he’d been so wrapped up in his own misery that he hadn’t even given it much thought. It was just taken care of.
But this? This made him pause.
This woman was a mess. Her hair was a messy pile of white-blonde corkscrew curls that haloed her head in a frizzy nimbus, barely brushing her slim shoulders. She was lightly tanned, a sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her face was round and looked impossibly young . . . except for the knitting. And she had on what had to be the most sincerely godawful ugly suit he’d ever seen. It hung off her small frame like a shapeless sack, and he was pretty sure that shiny fabric was polyester. Dear Lord.
He’d asked for competent. Experienced. Gretchen had assured him that Hunter’s assistant was all these things.
Gretchen.
He’d bloody kill her when he got back.
“Just who are you?” Griffin barked out at the strange woman, furious. He was too polite to add the bloody hell that he wanted to that statement. This had to be a mistake.
She blinked slowly. Twice. As if it were difficult to do so. Long, white-blonde lashes skimmed her eyes and there was something peculiar about her gaze. Her eyes were extremely dark.
“Howdy,” she said in a husky Southern drawl that was so thick that it made him inwardly cringe. Small hands dropped the knitting into her lap and she stuck one out at him. “I’m Maylee Meriweather. That’s Maylee after both my Nana May and Pepaw Lee.”
He just stared. “Please tell me the words ‘Nana’ and ‘Pepaw’ did not just come out of your mouth.”
She tilted her head and blinked slowly again. Then she giggled, the sound musical and sweet and young. “You must be Mr. Gryffindor.”
“Griffin,” he gritted. Up in the front of the cabin, he heard the flight attendant smother a laugh, and he shot her an irritated look.
“I think I would be a Hufflepuff,” she said, her voice quite serious. “They seem to be the happiest ones. Quite homey, Hufflepuff.”
He stared at her a moment longer, and then looked over at the flight attendant. “Is she drunk?”
The attendant’s eyes widened. “I only gave her two drinks, sir.”
“Sounds like two too many,” he muttered. He turned back to the wild-haired blonde, who was blinking those owl-like eyes at him. “Are you drunk?”
“No sir,” she breathed. “I’m Maylee. That’s Maylee after my Nana May and Pepaw—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “You already told me. And you are clearly drunk. Either that, or a fool. Why did Hunter send you?”
“Double time,” she said, and gave him a beaming smile. “You’re caught in a poke and I get to make lots of money and a fancy trip to all them nice parts of Europe.”
Dear God, her accent got worse the more she talked. There were all kinds of revolting twangs rumbling out of her mouth. “Caught in a poke?”
He was really going to kill Gretchen.
“Yesiree,” Maylee breathed. “You’re plumb outta assistants and so Ms. Gretchen called me and asked me if I could look after Mr. Gryffindor. And I said I surely could. How come you sound all English, Mr. Gryffindor? I thought you were from Bellissime.”
“Griffin,” he corrected again stiffly. “And we speak English there. And I lived in Britain during my formative years.”
“Ah,” she said, and then leaned close. “Hogwarts, right?”
Bloody fucking hell. It was like having a conversation with a two-year-old. A very country two-year-old. He pulled out his phone and began to furiously text.
“Whatcha doin?” Maylee asked, that drawl making him even angrier.
“I’m texting Hunter to let him know how much I hate his girlfriend,” Griffin snapped. “You absolutely cannot be my assistant for this trip. This is a job that requires delicacy and an ability to maintain a tight schedule—”
“I can do all that—”
“—and manners!” Griffin barked. “This is inexcusable and utterly ridiculous and you are not going to be my assistant.”
“I’m not?” The two words were soft and trembly.
He shot her another angry look. “Don’t you dare—”
But it was too late. The horrid creature burst into big, gulping, noisy sobs.
Chapter Three
Griffin had grown up in a family that prized restraint and considered emotional displays to be bad form. Crying? Never happened, not even when his father died. It simply wasn’t done amongst the peerage, even now. And given that Griffin normally wasn’t his best with people, he really, really did not know what to do with a crying female.
This trip was going from bad to worse, and rapidly.
Griffin stared at the sobbing young woman seated behind him. She blubbered loudly, her youthful face turning splotchy red, her white-blonde curls bouncing as she wiped at her face with a cocktail napkin.
“Stop crying,” Griffin commanded.
She only cried harder.
This was ridiculous. He glanced at the flight attendant to see if she could help him, but she was averting her eyes, her mouth a reproachful line of disapproval. Lovely. It seemed that even his staff was not on his side.
With a sigh, Griffin looked back at the awful creature that was his assistant. “What will it take for you to stop crying?”
She sniffed loudly. “I need a hug.”
“You what?”
She extended her arms out.
“I’m not hugging you.”
She began to cry harder.
Griffin’s jaw clenched so hard he heard his molars scrape. This was beyond ridiculous. “Stop crying,” he said again.
“You don’t like me,” she blubbered.
No, I don’t, he wanted to say, but he had no desire to see more waterworks. He decided to try manipulation instead. “I will if you stop crying.”
“O-okay,” she said, and sniffed loudly.
That worked? Really? That had been easier than he’d thought. Griffin gave her a firm nod and turned back around in his chair. He’d give the creature some time to compose herself, and then he’d see the best way to get rid of her as soon as they stopped in Heathrow for refueling. He’d have to borrow a few members of staff from his mother, or his older brother, and he’d simply have to endure their incessant advice about adding employees and then cheerfully discard any suggestions once he got back to the States. He barely glanced over as the creature got up from her seat, likely to go and clean herself up in the lavatory. He was still thinking about staffing issues and how his mother would point out smugly that she’d warned him of such a problem, and she couldn’t possibly spare one of her own staff, because—
A shadow fell over Griffin.
He looked up, just in time for the strange, bizarre woman to drop herself into his lap and wrap her arms around his neck.
He stiffened in shock.
Had this . . . horrible woman really just climbed into his lap and put her arms around his neck? It wasn’t to be endured. He was her employer, first of all, and this wasn’t proper in the slightest. He was also a royal, and no one touched royalty without their permission, even in this day and age. “Miss,” he said flatly. “What do you think you are doing?”
She burrowed her face against his neck. “Told you I needed a hug,” she mumbled. And she snuggled closer, oblivious to his rigid posture.
“Get off me.”
She ignored him.
He looked for the attendant to help him out, but she’d disappeared from her seat, no doubt hiding up in the cockpit with the pilots. Blast.
Griffin was trapped.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, trying to think. Strands of curly blonde hair tickled his nose as she nuzzled closer, and he began to feel inappropriately aroused. Her arms around his neck were soft, her hair fragrant,
and her slight hip was pressing against his cock. Any red-blooded male would have that reaction, he told himself.
All the more reason to get her off his lap.
So he thought for a moment. What was her name? Nana? Millie? “Get up, girl.”
She gave a small sigh of pleasure and tucked her head even closer to his neck. “Don’t wanna.” Her lips moved against his throat, and Griffin shifted in his seat, willing his cock to quit responding to the touch of a drunk woman.
“What is your name again?”
“Maylee,” she breathed, and her soft breath tickled his skin. “Maylee Meriweather.”
“I need you to get off me, Maylee,” Griffin said, mentally applauding himself at his calm, even tone despite the odd situation. “It isn’t proper.”
Her head jerked up, narrowly missing his jaw, and she peered up at him. As she did, he noticed that her red-rimmed eyes were a brilliant green-brown that seemed to glow in her pale face. Damn it, those were rather nice eyes for a little country bumpkin who wore polyester.
That was another thought he shouldn’t have as her employer, he reminded himself.
“You still gonna get rid of me?” she asked, and her hand began to play with his hair, fingers toying with the base of his neck in a way that sent inappropriate shivers through his body.
Griffin gazed into those big green-brown eyes. He decided to level with her. “This is a very delicate job—”
“I’m good with handling delicate things.”
Great, now his mind was thinking of those small hands playing with his hair and touching all kinds of delicate things. Inappropriate. Inappropriate.
“But this is a job that will require a lot of skill—” Oh, hell, now that was a particularly bad choice of words.
“I have skills,” Maylee said in a husky voice, staring up at him. The side of her breast was pressing against his chest, and it felt a great deal rounder than what that godawful suit led on. “I can file, and take messages and type and I’m a burn talker.”
He was about to scoff at that paltry list of skills when he caught the last part of what she was saying. “A what? What in the devil is a burn talker?”