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Cocksure Ace – Cocky Hero Club
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From USA Today Bestselling author K Webster comes a standalone novel in Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Cocky Hero Club world!
I’m a fighter.
Hard work, hustle, and a little Hennessy is the Reid motto.
My dream is to marry the perfect man.
Until a chance flight with an arrogant pilot throws me off course.
Problem is, he fights back.
He’ll strip me of my armor.
One thing’s for sure.
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Don’t pull it off.
Don’t do it.
My entire body trembles as I stare at the single brown hair on my denim Tom Ford pencil skirt. One hair. My hair. Seemingly insignificant on the fifteen-hundred-dollar garment. It shouldn’t bother me, but oh how it does. It’s a metaphor for my life, really. Anything that doesn’t belong gets plucked away and removed. My life is to remain perfect because for so long it was not.
It’s just a hair, though.
Not some clingy boyfriend or an assistant who needs firing.
I’m not wooing a client into signing a seven-figure contract.
A hair is inconsequential to my life, so it shouldn’t matter.
Irritation flitters through me. Sweat forms between my shoulder blades. My hand twitches, making me squeeze my Starbucks Grande nonfat double cappuccino.
You’re a Reid, girl.
Act like it.
I straighten my spine and dart my gaze from the offending stray in my life. The lounge area for the private jet company is quaint and smells faintly of oranges. It’s probably the nicest piece of real estate at LAX, but that’s not saying much. The problem is I’m not supposed to be here. I was supposed to fly out days ago with them. With him.
While I was crossing the Ts and dotting the last Is on the Franklin Technologies acquisition, Daddy and his partner, David Tomlinson, flew out to Arenal Volcano in Costa Rica.
My father is getting married.
I try desperately to be happy for him, but it’s difficult. If anyone deserves their happily ever after, it’s Daddy. He went through hell when Momma had cancer. We both did. Mona may not be who I would’ve chosen for him, but I wasn’t given a say so.
Dragging my thoughts from the wedding, I back up to a more pleasant one.
Sure, he’s closer to Daddy’s fifty-six years, but he wears his age well. Brilliant, successful, charming. David ticks all the boxes. All I have to do is tick the last box—the one that finalizes us as an item. My hope is by the end of the week, I’ll be leaving Costa Rica with a rock of my own.
The future Mrs. Tomlinson.
I sigh happily. And then I pluck the hair off my skirt, flicking it to the floor before I can stop myself.
Life is almost perfect.
“Geezy squeezy, please tell me they have vodka,” a high-pitched voice whines.
I snap my stare up to a man strutting my way. He can’t be any taller than my five-foot-seven frame, but his personality’s certainly bigger. And his wardrobe is loud.
Please, God, do not let me share a flight with this man.
A headache is already forming.
“Are you the flight attendant? I’m thirsty and tired. Kyle? Kyle? Kyyyyyyyle?” The man—decked in tight pink leather pants that unfortunately show everything—stomps his feet like a child. Not small feet either. Giant feet in strappy, glittery heels. “Hello, honey.” He snaps his manicured fingers. “I’m talking to you.”
“Do I look like a flight attendant?” I clip out, pinning him with a glare that makes most men take a step or three back.
The garish man does take a step back, but it’s so he can openly scrutinize my outfit. Then, he waves a hand in the air, huffing. “No, doll, you look like a socialite with a stick up her ass. Kyle? Where are you?”
His words poke at my nerves. Sure, Daddy is wealthy and successful, but I’m no freeloader. I’m an asset to RT Corp. I’m the Reid who can get the hard deals done. I matter.
Ignoring him, I sip my cappuccino. The sprinkle of cinnamon I added warms me. When you have everything, sometimes it’s the little things that make you happy. Like a dash of spice or removing the damn hair from your skirt.
“Doris,” an old man says. “This way, Doris.”
Once again, my stare drifts to another man joining us in the lounge. The man has to be older than dirt. Hair white as snow, but he seems otherwise fit. He’s wearing a velvet burgundy tracksuit with “DD” embroidered on his chest.
“I’m right behind you, Dale. Keep your underwear on.”
Mr. Pink Pants curls his lip up. “Gross,” he mouths to me before shouting past the old couple. “Kyle! You walk like a turtle!”
Kyle—poor kid—was caught behind the couple and is loaded down with two giant rolling suitcases, about seven Louis Vuitton bags, and is seconds from crying based on his trembling bottom lip and red face.
“Dale,” Doris says, boldly staring at Pink Pants. “Would you look at this fruit?”
Pink Pants gapes at her, hurt flashing in his big green eyes. Before he can open his mouth to respond, Dale apologizes loudly.
“Doris here has lost her mind. Right, dear?”
“I just don’t know why Henry insists on dressing up in my clothes. They’re expensive,” Doris explains, which doesn’t explain anything.
Yep, definitely getting a headache.
“Damian,” Pink Pants says. “My name is Damian. Not”—he waves a hand in the air as though he’s disgusted—“Henry. I’m the Damian Birch.”