Cocksure Ace

by Webster, K.

  Cocksure Ace

  Copyright © 2020 by K Webster and Cocky Hero Club, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Emily A. Lawrence

  Cover Design by: All by Design

  Photo Credit: Adobe Stock

  Formatted by: Champagne Book Design

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Blurb

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Cocksure Ace Playlist

  Other Books by K Webster

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Note to Readers

  Cocksure Ace is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Playboy Pilot.

  It’s published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward’s New York Times bestselling series.

  To Matt, my very own cocky hero.

  I’m a fighter.

  At least that’s what my daddy always told me.

  It’s in our blood.

  Hard work, hustle, and a little Hennessy is the Reid motto.

  He taught me to fight for everything I wanted in life.

  Take down those who threaten the dream.

  My dream is to marry the perfect man.

  That man is my father’s best friend and I won’t stop until I have him.

  And at Daddy’s wedding in Costa Rica, I plan to make that dream finally come true.

  Then, my life will be smooth sailing.

  Until a chance flight with an arrogant pilot throws me off course.

  Literally.

  Camilo’s decisions affect my future, and I can’t allow anything—not even a cocksure, ridiculously hot idiot—to stand in my way.

  Problem is, he fights back.

  Every battle I’ve won in life, he shoots down and exposes me for the fraud I am.

  Trapped in paradise with my devilishly handsome nemesis seems like one of the seven circles of Hell…and, boy, is it getting hot around here.

  He’ll strip me of my armor.

  Remind me of my past.

  Force me to rethink my future.

  And help me live in the moment.

  Will he steal my heart too?

  One thing’s for sure.

  This girl won’t give up without a fight.

  Sheridan

  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.

  Breathe.

  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.

  David.

  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 Pan
ts 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.”

  The old couple just blinks at him.

  “The Damian,” he tries again. “Damian’s Dreamboats?”

  “Is that a porno?” Dale asks, cocking his fuzzy white head to the side.

  Damian blanches. “W-What? No. Ew. Gross, Gramps. I’m a designer. Yachts. Hello. Tell them, Kyle,” he whines, once again stomping his feet.

  Kyle—bless him—stutters, unable to formulate a response, as his face burns even redder.

  “Henry’s wearing my shoes,” Doris scoffs. “Those were expensive, boy.”

  Damian shoots me an exasperated look. I roll my eyes. He’s on his own. As soon as we get on that plane, I’m going to put my earplugs in and sleep the entire flight to Costa Rica.

  “Damian,” a thickly accented woman croons, rushing over to us. “I cannot believe my luck to share a flight with such a star!”

  “Finally!” Damian cries out before preening for our newest arrival. “Would you like me to sign your—ohmygod!” Damian bounces on his sparkly heels. “Estefania Villegas!”

  Shoot me now.

  The woman who is every bit of six feet tall with legs practically as long as I am beams at our gathering crowd. She’s beautiful. Shapely, sultry, sexy. Everything I’m not.

  “My friends,” Damian explains to us, his smile wide. “This is Costa Rica’s very own claim to fame! She’s not just a model, but she has her own hit albums in her country!”

  Estefania tosses back her golden-brown hair over her shoulder and purses her full lips out as though she’s posing for the freaking paparazzi. I need a drink. Or ten.

  I should have stayed in the limo.

  Nathaniel would have driven me onto the tarmac when the plane was ready and I could have avoided all this. But I was eager to be alone—to formulate a plan on making David finally take the leap for me.

  As the group chatters, I stand and grip the handle of my titanium Rimowa North America spinner luggage and walk away from the others to find some semblance of peace. I’m waiting by the empty desk when I hear someone whistling.

  Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

  I recognize The Beatles song immediately and perk up to find the source of the sound. Seconds later, a handsome man strolls out of the hallway and into the space. He’s wearing a pilot’s uniform—black slacks, white button-up shirt, and black tie. Gorgeous, no doubt, but married based on the ring on his finger.

  Not that I’m looking.

  I have David.

  His hazel eyes meet mine and he grins. “Good morning, miss.” My gaze darts to his nametag. Captain C. Clynes.

  “When’s departure time, Captain?” I blurt out, edgy from all the nonsense already.

  A laugh escapes him. “Soon enough. Just waiting on my co-pilot.” He continues to whistle as he walks over to the obnoxious group of people. “He’ll let you know when it’s time.”

  Ugh.

  I roll my eyes and down the rest of my cappuccino before tossing it in the bin. My eyes slide over to the clock on the wall—one, two, three times in a matter of seconds. This is ridiculous. We should be leaving by now.

  David is waiting on me.

  At least I hope he is.

  Without the pressures of running a multi-billion dollar company, we can relax and get to know each other better. We’ll order the resort’s finest red wine and talk late into the night while sitting under the stars. David will take me to bed again, and finally ask me to marry—

  “Yo también te extraño, Mamá,” a deep voice rumbles, cutting through my usual David fantasy. “Regresaré a casa pronto. Lo prometo.”

  The voice is rich and gravelly. Slightly playful.

  As soon as the owner of said voice steps out of the hallway, my heart stutters in my chest. Jesus, what a fine specimen of a man. Broad shoulders, tanned skin, black hair. His outfit is the same as the captain’s and he wears it just as well. It fits him in all the right places. The Latino man has a phone pressed to his ear, wearing a half smile. When he feels eyes on him, he darts his nearly black eyes my way, pinning me in place. Unfamiliar heat floods through me and I don’t like it. As though clued into my thoughts, he lazily roams his eyes down my body, lingering at my breasts that are heaving in my white notched collar poplin blouse.

  “Yo también te amo, Mamá,” he says in a gentle voice. “Adiós.”

  He hangs up the phone before sliding it into his front pocket that stretches over his clearly muscular chest. His nametag reads First Officer C. Zaragoza. A dark eyebrow lifts as he smirks at me. Bastard knows he’s hot.

  Gross.

  I know his kind and I’m not interested.

  “Do you speak English?” I blurt out, already over his good looks and ready to move this whole day along.

  The smug look melts away and his jaw clenches. “¿Hablas español?”

  Great, so that’s a no.

  “Right, so um,” I start, making my voice louder so he’ll understand. “I need to get to Costa Rica.” I lift both brows and widen my eyes, waiting for him to acknowledge that we’re on the same page. “Costa. Rica. Er, ¿comprende?”

  His dark eyes narrow. “Entiendo, señora.” He nods. “Lo que no entiendo es por qué tiene que hablar tan alto. No soy sordo.”

  I shoot a look over at Captain Clynes, but he’s laughing with his new friends. Ugh. Can this day get any worse?

  “I”—I point to my chest—“need you”—I point to his chest—“to fly me to Costa Rica. Now.”

  My finger is once again pointed to my chest and his eyes linger at my breasts again. Oh my God. This is why I’m after a mature man. They don’t do this.

  “Costa?” he says slowly and in a thick accent.

  “Rica,” I finish.

  “Costa Rica?”

  “Yes, Costa Rica.”

  I cannot believe this moron is going to help fly a plane.

  “Costa,” he says again. “Rica.” He practically purrs the “R” and makes a great show of enunciating. I get the slightest feeling he’s making fun of me.

  “Right, so I need you to get a move on it,” I grumble as I snap my fingers. Then, I mutter under my breath, “Asshole.”

  His jaw clenches. “¿Besas a tu madre con esa boca sucia?”

  Dammit, we’re getting nowhere.

  “Let’s try this again,” I start, but Captain Clynes walks over to us, intervening.

  “Allow me to translate,” Captain Clynes says. “Go on.”

  The way they exchange smug looks irritates me. I have seen it with enough men in the boardroom at RT Corp to know how they see me. A young, rich woman without a brain. I have more brains than both of these idiots combined. Hell, give me a manual and I can figure out how to fly the damn plane myself.

  “Your company gets paid a lot of money to fly people like me to our destinations,” I seethe. “I won’t be talked down to or disrespected. Furthermore, I will not waste any more of my day begging for you to take me to freaking Costa Rica!”

  The lounge goes silent at my meltdown.

  Quickly I swallow down my irritation and purse my
lips.

  “No disrespect, ma’am,” Captain Clynes says, “but the flight has been slightly delayed.”

  His dark-eyed co-pilot smirks.

  “Why?” I demand. “Was someone taking too long on their phone?”

  “CZ thinks—”

  “CZ?” I snap my eyes to the dark-eyed man’s nametag again—C. Zaragoza—and wave off the captain. “You can’t be serious. You’re not letting him”—I point at the co-pilot—“dictate our schedule, are you? Who’s the boss around here, huh?”

  “Rodrigo,” Zaragoza offers, his lips tugging at one corner.

  “Let me speak to him.”

  “You can’t—” Captain Clynes starts.

  Oh hell no. It’s time to pull out the big guns.

  “I most certainly can and will. All it takes is one call to my daddy and—”

  “Rodrigo no sabe inglés.” Zaragoza shrugs.

  Ignoring him, I glare at Captain Clynes. “What did he say?”

  “Rodrigo doesn’t know English.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” I cry out.

  Captain Clynes laughs and walks off. Just walks off.

  “Rodrigo,” Zaragoza growls, stepping closer to me until I feel his body heat warming my already sweaty flesh, “doesn’t know English because he’s a category two hurricane in the Pacific.”

  Perfect. Freaking. English.

  Anger melts away to embarrassment.

  “You lied, you bastard,” I hiss, hating that my carefully constructed world trembles at my feet with one stupid encounter with an asshole.

  “No, you assumed, lady.”

  Our eyes are locked in a furious battle of wills. I want to shove him and remind him of who I am. That he can’t treat me this way. I’m Sheridan freaking Reid. My neck is burning red from a combination of shame and fury. I’m not used to such lack of control. And in a matter of moments, he’s ripped all control away from my cold, hard grip.

  “Enjoy your flight,” he sneers, turning on his heel and walking away. “I hear Costa Rica”—he makes sure to roll his “R” in an obnoxious way—“has beautiful beaches. Adiós, mujer.”