One Up: Up Series Book 4 Read online

  One Up

  By Robin Leaf

  One Up

  Copyright © 2018 Robin Leaf

  All rights reserved

  Robin Leaf, publisher

  Cover art by Marianne Nowicki at PremadeEbookCoverShop.com

  Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, businesses, places, events, or incidents are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  One

  Kaelyn

  “Daddy called last night. He finally trusts me enough to send me to check on the New Orleans project. I’m sitting in the first class lounge now about to board my flight.”

  I heard Keaton grunt. “Why do you let that man…”

  I took a breath to control my voice. Something about talking to my big brother… well, he was the only person who brought out my inner child. But I was determined that this time, I would be the grown-up version of myself. When I felt the pathetic-whiney urge pass, I spoke.

  “Don’t start, Keaton, please. I want to prove to him that I can handle the business. I need to prove that I’m serious about it. You know how important it is to me.”

  I almost made it through the whole speech without sounding like Beaker from the Muppets. I was getting better.

  “You absolutely can handle it. I just don’t understand why you want to.” He blew out a breath on the phone, and I was sure, this time, his lips flapped just like they did when we were kids. “I’m not sure if Tristan will ever take you seriously, Kae. He sees what you do now as frivolous and a waste of time.”

  I sat there stunned. “I know you haven’t talked to him, so how can you know that’s what he thinks?” My stomach dropped. “Jesus, is that what you think about me?”

  Fuck, there was the Beaker voice again.

  “Oh, God, no. I see what you do. I see what you’ve done for me alone.” He took a deep breath. “There has never been a big brother prouder of a little sister. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it all. You are an awesome social event coordinator and an absolute marketing genius.”

  My heart swelled at his praise. “Thank you, Stoney. But why would you think Daddy –”

  “Because Tristan Cartupeli is old school. You know this. He will never believe a woman can run a hotel empire, and party planning to him is unimportant. He will certainly never understand the benefits of social media marketing. He will never change. I bet he’s sending you on a fool’s errand.”

  I scoffed. “Choosing the menu for the hotel restaurant is hardly a fool’s errand.”

  “Then be warned. I know how that man operates. This is a test, one you’ll never pass.”

  A uniformed woman stood in front of me. “Miss Cartupeli, you asked to pre-board. I’m here to escort you.”

  I nodded to her. “Yes. I’ll be ready in just a minute.” I began collecting my belongings. “Keaton, I’m going to do what’s best for the hotel, not what I think Daddy wants. Once I explain my plan, he’ll have to see it my way.”

  “Kaelyn, he’ll never see you as anything but his princess. Those pictures –”

  “Those pictures proved nothing other than the fact that there are assholes in the world.” I stood and nodded to my escort. “Look, I’m boarding my plane now, so I gotta go.”

  “I’ll call you when we get to Houston. Are you going to spend New Year’s in New Orleans?”

  “I am.”

  “Please don’t do Bourbon Street by yourself. Call your friends to join you.”

  I smiled. No matter what, my big brother always looked out for me. “I will. And send me pictures of the shop. I have an idea for a post. Love you, Stoney.”

  “Love you more, Bug.”

  The uniformed woman led me through the tunnel to my seat on the plane.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” I smiled at her as she turned toward me with one eyebrow raised. “When my assistant told me that she requested a window seat, I –”

  She looked down at the paper she held in her hand. “It says here that you are to sit in an aisle seat, which was listed on your boarding pass, that is if you even bothered to look at it.” She pointed to the paper. “See here, Row 2, seat C.” She looked back up to me and forced a fake smile, softening her tone. “I’m sure you are accustomed to getting your way, Miss Cartupeli, but you booked late, so this is all we had available. We can’t move passengers around just to suit the whims of…” she blinked her eyes twice and flashed a micro-expression of disgust, “…others.”

  And there it was: the rudeness that accompanies my brand of fame. One would think I would get used to being treated like a spoiled celebrity, but it never ceased to amaze me how people attacked first and never gave me a chance. They assumed what kind of person I was from the twisted shit the media broadcast and/or published.

  I turned on the charm I’d learned to wear like armor. “I was going to say that my assistant booked it incorrectly, and that I appreciated the airline for so graciously accepting my early-morning request to change seats. I was also going to thank you for personally escorting me on the plane early.” Smiling, I added, “But now, I’m going to sit down and politely request to be left alone since jumping to conclusions and not letting people finish their complements seems to be more your forte.”

  I secured my carry-on under my seat and made a move to sit down, but she was still standing there, her hand gripping the back of the seat in front of me, her face becoming redder by the second.

  “If you are staying to apologize, there’s no need,” I offered in a gentle voice. “Just know in the future that a little human kindness, even when you don’t think someone deserves it, can go a long way.”

  Her mouth dropped open, searching for something to say, but I guess she thought better of it and walked away flustered, moving about the cabin to perform her pre-flight checks. That meant she would be an attendant on this flight. Wonderful.

  I took the opportunity to pull out my phone so I could email my assistant Brittany about the New Year’s Eve party I planned for Ciara, the Victoria’s Secret model I befriended. I figured Brittany could handle the party since I had arranged all the details, but she would need a checklist of the things she would need to oversee. She was great as a grunt, but horrible as a self-starter.

  Next, I needed to update a few of the accounts I manage. I saw that Keaton, a.k.a. Tater the tattoo artist, had sent the pictures I requested.

  I so much hated that stupid nickname. I begged him to use Stone or Stoney, but he said Tater was more relatable. Stone, to me, sounded like a badass and not a dumb-ass, back-woods hick. Whatever. He was a pretty sought after guy, booked solid for months in advance, so it was more about his talent than his chosen pseudonym… one I would certainly never call him.

  I updated all the accounts and switched to my personal ones. Five-hundred-thousand followers, most of them positive fans, expected at least one post a day. I tried to have my assistant take up some of the slack, but my followers could tell she wasn’t me. Today would be a traveling theme, scheduling a different post for each of the apps. I posted something about planes, made a quippy remark about kindness (because that woman inspired me), and attached a link to my “t
raveling” playlist, containing a few new artists I felt needed some exposure.

  I always included products or music I liked. I was not one of those who hocked the wares of companies that pandered to me. I made more than a few enemies turning some of those down, but at least my followers knew I was genuine with my recommendations, unlike so many other sell-out, pseudo celebs.

  Yes. I was a pseudo celebrity. I knew this and readily admitted it. As the daughter of a hotel tycoon, a “rich-girl socialite,” I never asked for the spotlight. In fact, I was thrust into it unwittingly, but I was trying to use my status for good.

  If only people would let me.

  Yeah, the media? Not my friend.

  But social media was my bitch.

  Once all the posts uploaded, I switched my attention to researching restaurants in New Orleans. Since I lived there during my time at Tulane, I knew the city. I was certain Daddy would want a Cajun restaurant, but the city was flooded with those. I wanted to choose a menu that was fresh and different, maybe a fusion restaurant, mixing the Cajun/creole spices with something not so common. I’d have to talk it through with the chef.

  Keaton was right. Daddy would probably hate it, but I felt certain I could convince him to give it a try.

  I looked down at my clothes and almost regretted not taking more time on my appearance. I wore my “I don’t want to be recognized” ensemble, consisting of my dingy Converse, ratty jean-and-t-shirt combo, and cropped jacket, topped off with the bad-hair-day cap and mascara-only make up. I was not here to impress, only to get from point A to point B. Comfort seemed like a not-so-good idea anymore.

  The other first-class passengers were beginning to board. They, like me, usually preferred to be left alone, so no one paid me any mind. And anyway, ever since I made the decision to color my hair darker about a year ago, I didn’t get recognized as often, which I liked.

  I continued my research until something caught my attention. Not sure why I looked up, but when I saw him, I’m so glad I did.

  Strong, high cheekbones. Full lips. Cleft in his chin. I couldn’t make out his eye color. Brown, silky-looking hair to his shoulders. Unbuttoned olive-colored long-sleeved shirt covering a black T with some sort of old-timey game cartridge on it and the words, “Blow Me” underneath it. He had that unaware, hipster-nerdy, hot-body-hiding thing going on.

  But the icing on the just-my-type cake? He turned to stuff his overnight in the overhead compartment, letting me come face to bum with his glorious, tight-fitting-jean-covered ass. Holy hell, I had to close my eyes and grip the armrests to restrain myself.

  It’s not nice to bite a stranger’s ass, KaeKae. Keep telling yourself that.

  It’s not nice to bite a stranger’s ass.

  It’s not nice to bite a stranger’s ass.

  I peeked one eye open, and it was still there, now shaking back and forth with the finesse of one of those Magic Mike dancers in that show Ciara dragged me to see in Vegas for my birthday last month. I both cursed and blessed his struggle to get his bag to fit.

  Do not touch it. No biting and no touching. God, KaeKae, get a grip.

  So there I was, white knuckling the armrests, trying to repeat my silent mantra in my head, when who should happen to cop a squat next to me? None other than Dr. Sophia Bourgeois, my college professor, the same one who wrongly accused me of cheating on my midterm.

  Lovely.

  I ventured a glance his direction. Thank God he was seated. It would have been hella embarrassing to get caught with the flesh of his ass between my teeth in front of the woman who made my life hell for a half a semester.

  Fuck me running.

  Luckily, she showed no signs of recognition. Hopefully, it remained that way.

  He… well, he never looked at me, which was a good thing.

  I ducked my head to look at my phone. Now all I needed to do was keep focused. Ignore my neighbors. Put on another layer of my mango Burt’s Bees Lip Balm. Resist the urge to engage in conversation. Make it to The Big Easy with no complications.

  No problem.

  Music. Listening to my playlist would definitely provide the distraction I needed to not engage with the super-attractive unicorn of a hot-nerdy love muffin next to me.

  Slipping in my ear buds, I hit play. Daniel Cesar crooned, and Black Pistol Fire and KaiL Baxley were on tap to take me away. I needed a little jazzy-bluesy music to get me in the mood for the next forty-eight, that was until Miss Rude flight attendant nudged me and indicated for me to take out my ear buds. Apparently, it was important for me to hear her partner go through the safety speech.

  Puh-leez. I’d heard that speech so many times I could recite it backwards.

  Probably.

  I was about to slip my ear buds back in, when I glanced to my left. My cutie neighbor was smiling at his phone, and his smile made my heart happy.

  “I’m sorry, but all phones need to be put away until we tell you otherwise,” Miss Rude announced, pointedly looking our direction.

  If I had my ear buds in, I wouldn’t have heard that message. The fucking distracting hotness next to me had to go and ruin it.

  I laid my head back on the seat, mentally planning the menu and the questions I would ask the chef, when Miss Rude brought the cart around. I asked for a cup of ice water, which she thankfully didn’t spill on me like I knew she wanted to do.

  Then I heard his voice. Its deepness flowed over me like the fucking melted butter they serve with lobster, all melty and smooth and tasty. Mmmmm.

  He ordered a glass of champagne? Who does that at barely 9:00 in the morning? Especially when they are dressed like they just stepped out of a GameStop.

  Miss Rude rolled her eyes and huffed away from him, which made me feel a little bit better. It wasn’t just me… It was her sunny disposition.

  “Yeah. She’s full of sunshine and daisies, huh?”

  Shit. I spoke to him. Well… since I already committed, I might as well go all the way.

  “May I ask what you are celebrating?”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but he froze. His haunting, forest green eyes didn’t leave my face.

  Fuck. I’ve been made.

  Two

  Brody

  “A glass of champagne, please.”

  The flight attendant poured it and almost shoved the plastic cup to me rather unceremoniously. Where was the special treatment first class customers were supposed to receive like in the commercials or movies? Kindness? A smile? An offer for a hot towel? There should be some big deal made. At the very least, she could question why I ordered champagne, especially so early in the morning. Nope. She didn’t even make eye contact.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I offered, my southern manners overtaking me once again. My momma taught me that manners could disarm the most discourteous people. Not this time though. The attendant scoffed, rolled her eyes, and pushed the cart forward.

  Rude.

  I kept forgetting how some women, usually those who didn’t get raised in the South, took offense to the word “ma’am,” although I never understood why. I was raised to be polite and courteous, and that wasn’t going to change. I would hold open doors, say “ma’am” and “sir,” and be helpful and kind until the day I died. Fuck the ever-changing social constructs.

  “Yeah. She’s full of sunshine and daisies, huh?” a sweet voice to the right of me asked. “May I ask what you are celebrating?”

  I looked across the aisle and was momentarily struck stupid. Brown doe-eyes with eyelashes to match stared at me inquisitively. This girl, wow. Her dark hair was tucked through the back of a simple white, feminine baseball cap, and she had on very little makeup; only light gloss or lip balm accentuated those pouty lips, which were drawn into a mostly-innocent-with-a-hint-of-a-devious smile. Her velvety, tanned skin made me want to reach out and touch her cheek to see if it was as soft as it looked. I couldn’t tell her age, but I knew she was old enough for me to not feel like a douche for the momentary wave of lust that shot t
hrough me.

  Lusting over another woman is wrong, dickhead. Focus.

  I remembered, after my mesmerized stare, that she had asked me something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall her words.

  “I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

  Her smile grew. “I just assumed you might be celebrating something since you ordered champagne. Not too many people drink that stuff for the hell of it.” She adorably crinkled her nose.

  This was what I expected from the flight attendant, but if she had asked, then I wouldn’t be talking to the gorgeous woman next to me. Thank you, rude attendant.

  “You’re probably right there.” I smiled. “But to answer your question, there’re three things I’m toasting. One, it’s my birthday.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, happy birthday.”

  I smiled and tipped my imaginary hat. “Thank ya, ma’am.”

  She nodded and winked, and it almost threw me.

  Damn, she’s cute.

  I shook it off. “Second, I just signed the deal of a lifetime last night.”

  “That sounds exciting,” she cooed, turning her knees and leaning closer to me. “Let me guess. When you got up this morning, you pissed excellence?”

  “Well, I’m not Ricky Bobby, but I felt like it this morning.”

  She laughed. “You got that reference. I like you already.”

  Damn. This girl’s laugh is hypnotic.

  “Thank you, again.” I paused because I really didn’t want to admit my third bit of news. Instead, I just stared.

  “Well,” she prompted, “what’s your third thing?”

  “Oh… well,” looking at the floor, I felt my face get hot. I looked up at her with my eyes only. “I’m on my way home to propose to my girlfriend.”

  Her smile faltered for a nanosecond before her perfectly straight, white teeth gleamed at me. “Well, those are definitely reasons to celebrate.”