Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Nolan

I stepped out of the sleek black Mercedes Benz sedan that had been arranged by Mr. Dalton and gaped at the small private terminal before me. We definitely were not at the San Diego International Airport I was used to.

"Close your mouth, Zamboni boy. You'll catch flies," Zena teased.

I shot her a playful glare. "Sorry, some of us aren't born with a silver jet in our mouth."

"That makes no sense." She rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a smile. "Come on, let's get through security. It's different from what you're used to."

We rolled our suitcases inside the sleek terminal, where a friendly security officer greeted us, checking our IDs with a smile. "Good morning, Miss Dalton." He nodded at me. "Welcome, Mr. Reid. Please place your bags on the belt and step through the metal detector when you're ready."

The screening process was surprisingly quick and discreet—no lines, no chugging my water bottle at the last minute because it was one-eighth of an ounce over the limit, no awkward shoe removal dance. Within thirty seconds, we were through to the other side.

"That's it?" I whispered to Zena as we collected our bags.

Zena laughed. "Welcome to private aviation, Nolan. Where the only thing faster than the jets is the security process." She gestured to the well-stocked refreshment area. "Want anything before we board? It's all complimentary."

I scanned the assortment of snacks, my eyes widening at the selection of protein bars, yogurt, Belgian chocolate, fresh pastries, gourmet coffees, organic trail mix, sandwiches, and fancy cheese and cracker packs.

"All of this is free?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yep. Help yourself," she said.

Despite the temptation, I shook my head. "I'm good, thanks."

We had barely settled into the comfortable leather chairs when a man in a crisp business suit wheeled his carry-on in our direction, his gaze briefly meeting mine.

"Hello," I said with a nod and a smile.

The man's pace slowed for a fraction of a second.

"Hi," he replied, before continuing on his way.

Zena studied me, suspicion creeping into her expression. "Do you know him?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

She opened her mouth, clearly about to say something else, but then a distinguished-looking gentleman approached us. The guy was in his mid-fifties, with a neatly trimmed silver beard. He wore a navy-blue jacket adorned with four gold stripes on each sleeve, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie peeking out from beneath. Atop his head sat a matching cap with a polished golden insignia, completing his authoritative look.

"Good morning, Miss Dalton," he said with a warm smile.

"Good morning, Jack," she said, returning his smile. "How are you?"

"I couldn't be better—thanks for asking." He turned to me, extending his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reid. I'm Captain Jack Albright. I'll be flying you to Las Vegas."

"Oh, wow, okay," I said, surprised. "Nice to meet you as well."

"If you'll follow me, we're ready for takeoff," he said.

We shuffled behind Jack across the tarmac toward the waiting jet.

I shook my head in amused disbelief. "The pilot comes to get you? Now, I've seen it all."

"Trust me, Nolan," Zena said. "You have not seen it all. Not even close."

Boarding the jet was like stepping into another world. Leather seats, gleaming wood panels, and enough legroom even for Shaquille O'Neal.

I whistled, glancing around, running my fingers along the leather. "I'm speechless."

"Wait till you try the bathroom. It doesn't require contortionist skills to use," Zena quipped, settling into her seat.

After I sat in the seat next to her, a flight attendant appeared as if by magic, offering us mimosas on a silver tray.

I held up my glass. "Here's to painting a masterpiece of make-believe on the canvas of reality."

Zena nodded with appreciation. "So poetic …"

"Thank you," I said. "I was channeling my inner Maya Angelou."

She smiled and clinked my glass. "Cheers."

We sat for a few minutes in silence, enjoying our mimosas. The flight attendant returned and informed us we were getting ready for take-off. Zena and I exchanged a quick glance before tipping back our flutes and downing the remaining mimosas in a few swift gulps. The bubbles tickled my nose as I savored the last sip. With a graceful turn, the flight attendant disappeared behind us with our empty flutes.

The intercom crackled to life with Captain Jack's voice. "Miss Dalton, Mr. Reid, welcome aboard. Our flying time to Las Vegas this morning will be approximately fifty-five minutes. Current weather there: clear skies and already a very toasty one hundred and five degrees. We're currently second in line for takeoff, so please sit back, make yourselves comfortable, and enjoy the flight."

A surge of excitement bubbled up inside me. "That's the first time a pilot has ever talked directly to me on a flight. Pretty cool."

Zena turned to me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "It looks like you have transitioned from Maya Angelou to channeling your inner child. I half expect you to ask for a tour of the cockpit after we land."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with that, is there?" I countered.

She softened, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "Not at all. In fact, it's kind of adorable."

The acceleration pressed us into our seats as we lifted off. San Diego quickly disappeared beneath us, making way for the glittering Pacific Ocean before turning back in the opposite direction toward Nevada.

"Look, you can see Mexico down there," she said, pointing out the window.

I smirked. "Should we stop for tacos?"

"Tempting, but maybe next time," she replied, shaking her head with a smile.

After we got to a cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, the flight attendant returned with another round of mimosas.

"I still can't believe I'm doing this," I said, clinking Zena's glass again. "Is this how the other half lives? What a stress-free life."

"Not even close," she said without hesitation. "The rich people I know, especially my dad, have much more stress than most average folks."

"Why is that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"First, I should say that it is usually self-induced stress, not stress that comes from external sources," Zena said. "It's the mentality of ‘it's never enough.' Always chasing the next big thing, the next million, the next acquisition, or the next vacation house. All of that more, more, more takes its toll on the body. Now you know why I'm worried about my dad's heart."

I frowned, trying to wrap my head around it. "Seems counterintuitive and a horrible way to live. I'd rather have less money if it means having more peace in my life."

"Money can't buy happiness—there's a reason people say that all the time," Zena said.

I nodded. "Because it's true."

"Anyway—enough about rich people's problems," she said. "How are you enjoying your first private flight?"

"It's unreal," I admitted, glancing out the window at a plane in the far distance going in the opposite direction. "Do you always travel like this?"

She shook her head. "If Dad plans it, yes. I have little choice since it's been the norm since birth. But when I plan my own trips? I book commercial flights."

I nearly choked on my mimosa. "Seriously? First class, though, right?"

"Usually," Zena nodded. "The only time I'd take a private jet is if I'm treating friends to a trip. Sometimes it's even cheaper to charter a jet than buy first-class tickets for everyone."

"Huh," I mused, filing away that little tidbit of rich-person knowledge. "Have you ever flown with the team anywhere?"

Zena shook her head. "For one, it would be a distraction, which is the number one thing the coach wants to avoid when the team is traveling. The players need to be focused, and they have rigid schedules and rules when they're on the road. And typically, chartered team flights are reserved for players, coaches, and essential staff. Besides all that, would you really want to fly with Mitch?"

"Not really, but speaking of Mitch?—"

"You want to know how I ever could have dated someone like him?" Zena said.

"Well, yeah," I said with a shrug.

She nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. "Fair question. The simple answer is, he's not the man he used to be. We met when he was a rookie, fresh out of college, and we had become friends. Mitch was different back then. Hungry, yes, but also humble. He'd stay late after practice, always asking the veterans for advice. He volunteered at local hockey camps for kids, not because it was good PR, but because he genuinely loved the sport and wanted to give back."

"What changed?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Success, ironically," Zena sighed. "A couple of months after we had started dating, he signed his first big contract. It was like a switch had flipped. Suddenly, he was all about the celebrity lifestyle, the parties, the endorsements, the flashy cars." She shook her head. "The final straw was when he blew off a children's hospital visit that I had organized because he was out with another woman. He was a completely different person, like night and day."

I nodded. "And you didn't want to be with someone you didn't recognize anymore."

"Exactly," Zena said, a small smile returning to her face. "I have no regrets about dating Mitch for a few months. The old Mitch, I mean. But when someone changes into a person you don't like or respect, it's time to say goodbye."

"I couldn't agree with you more," I said, seeing Zena in a new light.

She shrugged, her usual playful demeanor returning. "Plus, let's be honest—dating a guy who uses more hair products than I do was bound to cause problems."

I ran my fingers through my hair dramatically. "Sometimes I can go an entire day without even looking at my hair. I'm sure you'll find that hard to believe."

"Such willpower," she smirked, then her expression softened slightly. "I imagine your divorce wasn't easy, either."

I leaned back in my seat, thinking about it. "Oh, you know, it was your typical ‘wife wants to move to Paris' scenario. Happens all the time."

"And let me guess, your French begins and ends with oui and croissant ?" Zena asked.

I smirked. "Don't forget omelette du fromage . But yeah, between my non-existent French and my love for my job here, Paris felt less like the City of Lights and more like a City of Yikes. But really, I realized we had different ideas about our future. She'd been secretly applying for jobs abroad without telling me. That was my au revoir moment."

"I get it," she said.

"On a more positive note," I said. "What's the plan when we get to Vegas? I doubt we'll be able to check-in to the hotel so early in the day."

"Oh, we're way ahead of the game," Zena said with a smile. "Our rooms were booked for two nights, starting from when the players arrived last night. So we can waltz right in and drop our bags. That leaves us with a glorious eight-hour window before the game tonight. The question is, how should we paint the town red? An early show? A buffet?"

I grinned. "Maybe both?"

We shared a laugh and clinked our mimosa glasses, and I couldn't help but marvel at how easy it was to talk to Zena. There were so many things I admired about her that went well beyond our chemistry and physical attraction. Despite our different backgrounds, conversation flowed effortlessly between us, punctuated by flirty glances. The rest of the flight passed in a blur, and before I knew it, we touched down in Las Vegas.

Fifteen minutes later, we grabbed a taxi outside the airport. The driver navigated the bustling streets of Sin City to Mandalay Bay, a hotel that was chosen because of the proximity to the T-Mobile Arena where the Sea Lions would play the Las Vegas Golden Knights.

After checking into the hotel, we ascended in the elevator to the 40th floor, and that was when a nervous energy began to build in my stomach. The reality of our situation was sinking in.

I was sharing a room with Zena Dalton.

We rolled our suitcases into the room, the soft whirl of the wheels on the carpet filling the silence. Zena immediately made a beeline for the window, and I followed her, drawn like a magnet.

"Wow," I said, taking in the panoramic view of the Las Vegas Strip. Even during the day, it was impressive.

From our vantage point, the entire Vegas Strip stretched out before us like a glittering toy set. Directly across from us, the black pyramid of Luxor stood out against the desert backdrop, its apex gleaming in the sunlight. Beyond it, the emerald towers of MGM Grand dominated the skyline.

"Look," Zena pointed, "you can see the roller coaster at New York-New York." I followed her finger to the twisting red track that snaked around the miniature Manhattan skyline.

My eyes traveled further down the Strip, taking in the ornate facade of Paris Las Vegas, its half-scale Eiffel Tower piercing the sky. I motioned to the High Roller, the massive wheel slowly turning against the sky.

"That's Vegas for you," Zena commented, following my gaze. "They built their own giant observation wheel to rival the London Eye. Because why not?"

I nodded, still taking in the spectacle before us. I had never seen Vegas from this angle, or with this childlike excitement, knowing the reason was most likely standing right next to me. But as we stood there, shoulders almost touching, a curious thought crept into my mind. Were we both that captivated by the view, or were we using it as an excuse to delay the inevitable conversation about our sleeping arrangement?

I glanced at Zena out of the corner of my eye. She seemed thoroughly engaged in pointing out landmarks, but there was a slight tension in her posture that hadn't been there on the plane. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was. Either way, I wasn't ready to find out just yet.

"And there's Caesar's Palace," I noted, recognizing the Roman-inspired architecture. "They filmed The Hangover there."

Zena nodded, a smile playing on her lips. "Yes, and let's hope our Vegas adventure is a little less chaotic. The last thing I want is to discover a live tiger in the bathroom."

We shared a laugh and continued to soak in the view. Then, almost in unison, we finally turned to face the room and the two queen beds that dominated the space.

"So …" Zena said, her eyes flicking between the beds and me.

"So …" I echoed as an awkward silence hung in the air between us, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, Zena cleared her throat. "I, uh, prefer the bed closest to the bathroom, if that's okay with you."

"That's fine with me," I said, grateful for the break in tension. "Any reason?"

"I have this irrational fear of tripping over furniture in the dark if I need to use the bathroom at night." Zena shrugged sheepishly. "It's a thing."

I chuckled, the remaining tension dissipating. "Well, we can't have you stubbing your toe on my account."

"My hero," she said dramatically, kicking off her sandals and flopping onto her chosen bed and then glancing back at me.

I had to force myself to look away. That sexy smile of hers was dangerous, the kind that made it hard to think straight. I needed a distraction, fast.

"Okay then," I muttered, more to myself than to Zena. I walked over to my suitcase and pulled out a small bag. "I, uh, have something for you."

Zena sat up, curiosity lighting up her face. "You mean like a gift?"

"Multiple gifts, actually," I replied, trying to sound casual.

Her eyebrows shot up. "You can't do that. I got nothing for you."

"Relax, it's no big deal," I assured her, handing her a small red jewelry box.

She took the box and smirked. "It's a little soon for marriage, don't you think? And shouldn't you be down on one knee?"

I snorted. "Keep dreaming. Just open it."

Zena opened the box and pulled out a small sterling silver pendant of an octopus. An amused smile formed on her lips. "This is so cute, but I don't get the significance."

I shrugged. "You told me you were part octopus when we had lunch at Lucha Libre. I saw this and thought of you. That's all."

"I can't believe you remembered that," Zena said.

"I remember everything," I said.

"That was sweet of you—I love it," she breathed. "Would you mind doing the honors?" She stood, unclasped the necklace, and handed it to me before turning around.

Moving her gorgeous auburn hair to the side, my fingers brushed against her neck. After I clasped the necklace, she turned to face me.

"Perfect," I said with a grin.

Our eyes locked.

I glanced at her lips.

Luckily, my own words came back to save me from making a mistake.

In public, hands on. In private, hands off.

I quickly stepped back, reaching for the second gift, and handing it to her. She opened it and snickered as she pulled out the pair of earplugs.

I shrugged. "Just in case. I'm not sure if I snore or not, and I know sleep is important."

"How can you not know if you snore?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Hello? Because I'm sleeping!" I retorted.

Our laughter subsided as I handed Zena the last gift. She unwrapped it, her expression morphing from curiosity to bewilderment as she held up a Simpson's T-shirt with Bart, Marge, and Homer grinning cartoonishly at her.

"Okay, Sherlock," Zena said, eyeing me suspiciously. "You claim to remember everything, but I never told you I was a fan of the show. What gives?"

My brain scrambled for a plausible explanation. "Are you saying you don't like the show?"

"I do, but?—"

"Great!" I said. "It's something for you to sleep in."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "Is this some kind of test? Are you trying to see if I'll actually wear this fashion faux pas to bed?"

"Homer would be dejected if he heard you say that." I pointed to the T-shirt, aiming for nonchalance but probably landing closer to a nervous twitch. "So, you won't wear it?"

Zena held the T-shirt at arm's length as if examining a curious artifact from another century. "I didn't say I wouldn't wear it, but I'm wondering if I should be concerned that you want to see me in this. Tell me the real reason."

There was no way I was going to tell her I was terrified that she would wear some silky, lacy lingerie to bed that would make me lose my mind. The Simpsons T-shirt was my last line of defense, a cartoon chastity belt, if you will. I mean, who could look sexy with Homer's doughnut-loving mug stretched across their chest? It was foolproof, but I still needed to convince her to wear it.

"It's just a shirt," I said, my voice climbing an octave. "A funny, totally normal, not-at-all-weird shirt to sleep in."

"Uh-huh," Zena nodded slowly, a smirk playing on her lips. "And what if I told you I already have something to sleep in?"

Images of Zena in alluring sleepwear flashed through my head, and I quickly squashed them before I said something stupid.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Are you saying you won't sleep in it?'

She shrugged. "Well, if you really want me to."

"Great!" I said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

Zena gave me an odd look. "You're acting weird."

"What? No, I'm not. I have no idea what you're talking about," I denied, knowing full well I was babbling like an idiot. I gestured to our suitcases for a distraction. "We should probably unpack before we head out. I'm not a fan of wrinkles."

Zena raised an eyebrow. "Slightly OCD, are we?"

"Maybe," I said. "Let's just say I like my clothes smooth, like the ice at the San Diego Arena, and leave it at that."

We shared another laugh, then divided the drawers and closet space for unpacking, Zena taking eighty percent of it, and me the other twenty. The room suddenly felt much smaller, bumping elbows and practically dancing around each other as we unpacked. I reached behind Zena to hang a shirt, catching a whiff of her perfume as my arm grazed her shoulder.

"Sorry," I mumbled, backing away.

"No problem," she replied, sidestepping to make room. As she did, her hip brushed against mine, sending an unexpected jolt through me.

We continued our unpacking tango, our hands occasionally brushing as we reached for our drawers. Each brief touch felt charged, like the chemistry was growing between us. Finally, I was putting away my socks and underwear when Zena tried to squeeze past me to reach her drawer. This time, in the narrow space between the bed and the dresser, she bumped into me and lost her balance, teetering precariously.

Without thinking, I reached out to steady her, my hands grasping her waist. She instinctively grabbed my arms, and suddenly we were pressed against each other, our faces inches apart, our expressions frozen.

Zena blinked a few times, then cleared her throat to break the spell. "Um, thank you."

"No problem," I replied, slowly releasing my grip on her waist.

"Maybe we should head out now," she suggested, a slight flush coloring her cheeks.

I nodded, grateful for the suggestion. "Sounds like a plan."

"Whoops—hang on," Zena said with amusement as she bent down. "You dropped something."

I glanced down to see her holding a pair of my black boxer briefs.

"Thanks," I said, snatching it from her and stuffing it into the drawer. "You did not see that."

"No—I did not," Zena said. "Now, let's go see what kind of trouble we can find outside."

I grabbed the card key to the room, stuck it in my wallet, and opened the door. Then we stepped out into the hallway.

"Are you freaking kidding me?" the familiar voice growled behind us. "What are you doing here?"

Slowly, we turned to see Mitch standing in front of the hotel room next door to us, his hand gripping a card key, and his face a dark storm cloud. He dropped his duffle bag to the floor, his whole body vibrating with barely contained fury. He clenched his fist and stepped toward me. It was ironic that we were in Vegas, because at that very moment, I realized our little charade had become a high-stakes gamble, and Mitch was about to go all in.