Jessica Clare: Once Upon a Billionaire

“Yep.”

“Okay, great. I’ll text Griffin and let him know. He’ll be so pleased. Just pack all of your normal business wear.”

She’d have to get a cab to the airport. Actually, no. Cabs were expensive. Maybe she could take the subway instead. That was cheaper. “Can I ask where we’re going, Ms. Gretchen? Is it England? Italy?” Oh, she’d always wanted to see Italy! Excitement began to spin in her mind. Double time and a vacation? It was like Christmas around here. Ms. Gretchen was so sweet for thinking of her.

“It’s a place called Bellissime. It’s a very small country on the border of Italy and France. Right next to Monaco. Have you heard of it?”

“Um.” Maylee thought for a moment, then snuck a piece of popcorn and tossed it in her mouth. Geography wasn’t a strong suit of hers. “Isn’t that the place they’re gonna have that royal wedding?” She didn’t read a lot of tabloids, but it was hard to miss the headlines. A pretty blonde princess in some European country was marrying Hollywood actor Luke Houston, who had a chiseled jaw, a dreamy smile, and was in a lot of really bad movies. “It’s so sweet.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re going,” Gretchen said. “Griffin’s been invited to the wedding.”

She choked on a piece of popcorn, wheezing. “Beg pardon?”

“Royal wedding,” Gretchen repeated. “Big shindig. Lots of stuck-up assholes getting their picture taken.”

Maylee coughed, the popcorn lodged in the back of her throat. “Oh. Oh mercy,” she wheezed. She knew there was a reason why she liked Ms. Gretchen. She was so down to earth. “And again, you’re sure you want me to go to this?”

“You’ll be fine,” Gretchen said, a coaxing note in her voice. “It’ll be fun. Think of the stories you’ll have to tell afterward! And don’t forget, double time. All you have to do is make sure Griffin gets to places on time and take his phone calls. It’ll be easy.”

And Ms. Gretchen had wanted her to do it? Maylee beamed at the thought. “You tell Mr. Griffin he’s got himself an assistant.”

“Perfect!” Gretchen sounded utterly delighted. “I’ll send you an email with all the deets. Thanks, Maylee. You’re the best!”

They hung up and Maylee immediately unfolded her legs, heading across her tiny apartment over to the rickety old desktop computer she had set up. She couldn’t really afford a laptop yet, and someone had sold her this great—if noisy—computer on a street corner. She clicked it on and waited for it to start up, then she snagged a local hotspot and went web-surfing to find out everything she could about Bellissime.

The Wikipedia page on Bellissime was fascinating.

One of the oldest constitutional monarchies in Europe, Bellissime is a small mountainous country bordered on the east by Italy, west by France, and north by Switzerland. Tucked into the Alps, the official language is French, but as the monarchy has had British connections since the Middle Ages, English is commonly spoken. Bellissime is known for three things: its monarchy, its chocolate, and the tiny size of the country. Only Monaco and the Vatican are smaller.

A tiny mountain country in the Alps with a princess who was having a royal wedding? And she got to go? And she’d be paid a bonus?

Maylee pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

“Lordamercy,” Maylee breathed as the courtesy transport cart drove onto the tarmac toward the jet. She juggled her bags, clutching them in her lap.

“Almost there, Ms. Meriweather,” the driver told her.

“That’s rather a small plane, isn’t it?” It didn’t look very big. Or safe. She’d flown in an exceedingly large plane on the way to New York City, with three rows across and goodness knows how many up and down. This . . . was clearly not the same kind of plane.

“It’s a private jet, ma’am,” the driver said, an elderly man who seemed to be having a great time watching her reactions to everything in the airport. “Some are smaller than others. This is one of the larger ones.”

It was? She stared at it, gaping. “So there won’t be any other people on it?”

“No ma’am. Mr. Verdi won’t be flying coach.” She could have sworn he smiled to himself at the thought.

“Oh. Okay.” She felt incredibly out of her depth at the moment. Maylee clutched her luggage tighter. This suddenly felt a little overwhelming.

Double time , she repeated to herself. Double time . Gretchen had figured Maylee would be perfect for this job, and really, she was doing Mr. Griffin a favor by traveling at the last minute with him. She just needed to remember that.

He needed Maylee . Not the other way around. Lifting her head high, Maylee resolved that she was going to enjoy this trip. She’d never left the States before, and this would be the adventure of a lifetime.

The cart parked in front of the jet and a wheeled staircase had been set at the door. At the top, a flight attendant waited. The man took Maylee’s suitcase from her arms and frowned a bit at the bright red tartan of it, along with the trailing ribbons she had decorating the handle. He touched one of the ribbons. “Did you need to secure these, miss?”

“Oh, no,” she said cheerily. “That’s so it doesn’t get lost in the luggage pick-up.”

“There’s no luggage pick-up on a private jet,” he said, smiling at her. “Otherwise, it’s a smart idea.”

She beamed at him for the compliment. “I can carry the suitcase, honey. No need for you to go up all those stairs.”

“I don’t mind. It’s my job.”

“You’re so sweet,” she told him, and the man grinned at her. Mama had always told her you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so Maylee was always friendly to the staff. Heck, she was staff. These were her people. “I can’t thank you enough for the ride out here.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am,” he said again, and gestured for her to ascend the stairs ahead of him.

Maylee clutched her purse close, shifted her backpack onto her shoulder, and let him carry her suitcase. She was glad she’d worn low-heeled loafers with her skirted suit, because that staircase looked mighty steep. Didn’t most flights normally have a tunnel ramp thingie you went down to get onto the plane? She supposed this baby plane was too dinky for that sort of thing.

Nearby, another flight attendant smiled at her. She was wearing a black-jacketed suit that looked way fancier than anything Maylee owned. Her blonde hair was pulled into an elegant twist and she wore more makeup than Maylee. Still, she looked model beautiful. “Welcome. Mr. Verdi is inside. Can I take your things?”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Maylee said, and shrugged off her backpack. “You are so kind to offer. And my goodness gracious, you are so pretty!” It wasn’t a lie—the woman was flat-out gorgeous.

She chuckled at Maylee’s effusive compliment and took the bag from her. “Thank you. Follow me, and I’ll show you where you can sit.”

The interior of the jet was nothing like the time that she’d flown coach. Then, she’d been at the back of the plane and the ride was so bumpy that she’d felt like she’d ridden a bull all the way to NYC. They’d hit turbulence and it had given her nightmares so badly that she’d gone to the doctor for a prescription of relaxers, which were in her purse at the moment, for the next time she flew. She’d also been a middle seat, and had spent the entire terrifying flight squished between two fat businessmen, who’d looked terribly displeased at the thought of someone sitting in the middle seat. As if she could help it!

It hadn’t been an experience she’d wanted to repeat. The trepidation of flying had been on her mind this morning as she’d packed her suitcase, but double time pretty much won the argument every time. She had her pills. She’d be fine.