The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  Now all of a sudden, she’s got attitude because we’re a couple again?

  What the hell is up with that?

  She’s practically glowering by the time I reach our table. “I don’t think you’re being very smart.”

  That does it.

  “No offense, but I didn’t ask you,” I snap. “This is my life, and I would appreciate it if you could just once try to be supportive. I support you all the time, Shae, even when I think a lot of the things you do aren’t good ideas. Like quitting most of your jobs and sleeping with many of your co-workers. I may not always agree with your decisions, but I’m happy if you’re happy.”

  Her mouth hangs open in shock.

  Not surprising. I’ve never spoken to her like that in my life. I usually soften my tone, especially when the words might be a little harsh. I’m always going out of my way to shield her from the bad. And right now, I’m having a hard time remembering why I never take those kid gloves off around her.

  “Where is this coming from?” she asks, like she has the nerve to act miffed. “Why are you being like this?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “Maybe because I’m tired of this friendship always being so one-sided. Since that first day in the cafeteria with those girls that were teasing you, I have always been there for you. Through everything, the good and the bad. It would be nice if you would reciprocate every now and then. Especially since I’ve found someone who makes me the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”

  I’m too angry to stay and continue this conversation. I’ve said all I need to say, and I’m not going to let her bring me down. I’m going to go spend time with someone who actually cares about my feelings and has my best interests at heart.

  “You know what?” I shake my head in disappointment. “I’m out. Call me if you decide to act like an actual friend.”

  I grab my purse, slap down some cash for my drinks—when in the past I would have covered both of ours, plus the tip—and push to my feet.

  I don’t bother looking back as I march to my car.

  A spike of guilt tries to stab me in the heart, but I block it.

  If Shae wants to try and ruin what I know with absolute certainty is the best thing in my life, then I might no longer have a place for her in it.

  Why the hell did I agree to this?

  “Flying in a helicopter isn’t any scarier than flying on a plane, right?”

  West’s upper lip curls as he finishes strapping me into the passenger seat of the large, intimidating-looking aircraft. “Not scary at all, princess. This is a Bell 230, twin-turbine engine bird with two Allison 250 turboshafts. It can reach speeds of 160 miles per hour, and has a hover ceiling of over twelve thousand feet.”

  I stare blankly at him. “Is speaking gibberish supposed to make me feel better?”

  He grins. “No, it’s supposed to reassure you that I know what I’m doing. I’ve been flying these machines for seven years. Trust me, you’re safe with me.”

  After tightening my straps, he cups my cheek, peering into my eyes. “You know I would never let anything happen to you, right?”

  He must be part-magician because all my jitters suddenly go poof! and disappear into thin air.

  I nod. “Yeah, I know.”

  Then he plants a kiss on me that finishes the job of melting my bones to liquid and ridding me of almost all my fears. These kisses are still just as hungry and all-consuming as they were that night in his bedroom two weeks ago. We’ve barely even left the house since then, except to go to our jobs and that one evening when we took a walk on the beach.

  Otherwise, it’s been beautiful isolation with West. Those first three weeks together four months ago, we drowned ourselves in our own puppy love. This time, it feels deeper somehow. We’re diving farther below the surface and re-learning everything about each other. Although, some of that puppy love still might be permeating the air because I want to be around him all the time. Those eight hours of separation while I’m at work are now even more grueling than they were before.

  When he pulls out of the kiss, he appears satisfied with my dazed expression. “Good.” He moves over to his seat and straps himself in. “Then let’s get on with popping your helicopter cherry, shall we?”

  I tip my head back and laugh loudly, gifting me with a heart-stoppingly gorgeous, open-mouthed smile from him.

  I slide on the headphones he gave me as he begins speaking into his own headset. He asks for clearance from the tower, relaying our call numbers, or whatever the term is. He pushes a lot of buttons on the dash in front of him, turning some knobs and flipping switches. He’s completely at ease in this machine that could turn into a death trap in the blink of eye. He’s so confident, so in his element.

  Then he slips those aviator sunglasses on.

  God…damn.

  Talk about being Shot Through the Heart. That’s what’s playing on my personal life soundtrack right now.

  I’m still gaping at him—probably drooling—when he turns to me. “Ready?”

  Gimme everything you got, flyboy.

  My breath leaves me in a slow exhale. “Ready.”

  I can’t see his eyes behind those sunglasses, but from the way his jaw hardens—that one muscle ticking away—I have a feeling he’s picked up on my vibes. His tongue drags along his lower lip in a meaningful, sensual way. Dipping his chin, he peers over the top of those sunglasses, his gaze lingering on my mouth.

  With a muttered curse, he pushes his sunglasses back up his nose and faces forward.

  I inwardly congratulate myself when I keep my smile from spreading too wide.

  Then all urges to smile vanish when the sound of the whirring blades overhead grows louder, and we suddenly lift off the ground. My fingers tightly clutch my seat, my eyes squeezing shut, as we get higher and higher into the air and away from the safe, solid earth.

  “You can open your eyes now, princess,” West’s voice says through my headphones.

  I cautiously ease them open, one at a time. “Whoa.”

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  A smile inches back onto my face. “Amazing.”

  You definitely can’t get this kind of view from a plane.

  We’re flying right over the Charleston Harbor, where the U.S.S. Yorktown aircraft carrier is anchored in the water just below us. The marina, Waterfront Park, Patriot’s Point, it’s all right there. Then he shifts the stick in his hands and we’re whipping down the coastline, passing bobbing boats in the water and the giant mansions along Murray Boulevard. You can practically see all of Charleston from up here.

  Then my attention lands on West in the seat next to me, commanding this monstrous machine with his dexterous hands.

  I get it now. Totally get it.

  I understand that whole pilots-are-hot thing. Never did before today. But watching West handle this craft with so much capability and knowledge and control—it’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen, ever experienced.

  The muscles in his forearm tighten as he controls that stick, his biceps flexing with his efforts. His gray T-shirt stretches over those muscles, his thighs shifting in his khaki shorts as he presses down on the pedals at his feet.

  The demon slut positively salivates at the sight.

  “You love this,” I say through the headset.

  “Flying?”

  I nod. “Yeah, flying.”

  You can see it emanating from every part of him—pure joy. Peace. Serenity.

  “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love it,” he says simply. As if it were that simple.

  Maybe it is. You don’t know because you’ve never actually tried to chase your dream.

  He changes our direction again, taking us back out over the water, toward Fort Sumter.

  “How did you get into it in the first place?”

  He laughs. “It’s all thanks to my sisters, actually. When we were kids, Cheyenne always said she was going to become a famous biologist and eventually d
iscover the cure for cancer. Then Helena vowed she was going to become a star WNBA player and make millions.” He shrugs. “I was their little brother and a late bloomer. I had to hang with them somehow. So, I decided to come up with an equally impressive career path. Somehow, becoming a pilot seemed badass enough.”

  “Did your sisters both become what they wanted?”

  I vaguely remember him mentioning Cheyenne being a biologist the day we met in the market, but we’ve never gotten to the specifics of his family.

  He nods. “Cheyenne’s a biologist and works at some lab doing a bunch of stuff I don’t really understand. She’s pregnant with their second child. And of course, you know about Molly.”

  I’m glad he can’t look at me long enough to see me blush. Molly is his four-year-old niece that Cheyenne had “out of wedlock” with her husband. A fact that I so earnestly announced to my family at the dinner table.

  “Helena was a great college basketball player,” he continues. “Set a bunch of records. She’s now the women’s coach at her alma mater. Got married last year to a former NBA player. So, yeah. Needless to say, they set the bar pretty high.”

  Which explains why he’s so determined to make a name for himself by starting his own charter business.

  This conversation sheds light on the fact that I’ll have to meet his family sooner or later. And now, thanks to this enlightening information about how successful and accomplished his sisters are, I’m beyond nervous to. What’s impressive about working at the same Foundation where all the women in my family have worked since its inception?

  I’ll tell you. Nothing.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you… Cheyenne, as in Cheyenne, Wyoming? And Helena, as in Helena, Montana?”

  He grins. “Our parents were big backpackers in their younger days. Very outdoorsy. Loved to go hiking and rock climbing all over the country. They conceived Cheyenne in a broken-down travel lodge somewhere near the state capital. Same thing with Helena a few years later, though that was at a random campground not too far outside the city.”

  I slap my hand over my mouth to hold back my giggle. “They told you guys all of that?”

  He visibly shudders. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

  “And West…?”

  He sighs. “They were sleeping in their car in the middle of fucking nowhere, somewhere in the dessert. They didn’t have a clue where they were, only that they were out West somewhere. I’m not convinced they weren’t on Quaaludes or something.” He shoots me a look. “Nine months later, I was born.”

  I burst into laughter. “It could have been worse, you know. They could have been near Albuquerque, New Mexico. I could be calling you Albie right now.”

  He flashes me those white teeth. “I guess I should be grateful it wasn’t Monticello, Utah. Monte.” He cringes.

  “Or Pierre, South Dakota.”

  “Oh, thank God they weren’t near Butte, Montana.”

  Two minutes later, I’m still clutching my stomach and wiping away tears.

  Though his next question sobers me up pretty quickly.

  “Where did the whole cosmetics thing come from? How did you start making your own?”

  I turn to look out the window so he can’t see my wince. “Nothing was ever good enough for my mother. If it wasn’t perfect, it was sub-par. And even perfection has certain standards, in her mind. So, when I hit puberty and started having issues with my skin, she made it very clear that my adolescent imperfections were unacceptable.”

  He goes silent over the headset. The only sounds filling the cockpit are those of the rapidly spinning blades overhead.

  “She forced me to try every product on the market to clear my face up,” I go on. “But my skin is so sensitive that nothing worked. Eventually, she took me to a dermatologist and demanded they fill a prescription for the strongest stuff available. By then, she had me on a forty-five-minute face regimen every night before bed.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters.

  “Yeah.” Talk about giving your child a complex. “Back then, it didn’t matter what I did in school, how good my grades were, or what I accomplished in my extracurriculars. If my skin wasn’t flawless, then every other aspect of my life was flawed, too.”

  I can feel his sympathy stretching across the space between us. I know he’s not intending it in a pitying way. More like comforting.

  “When I took my first chemistry class in junior high, I realized I had a talent for it,” I push forward. “I liked it. The formulas made sense to me. Once I learned what minerals worked best on my skin, I started making my own products because even what the dermatologist prescribed wasn’t a miracle worker. After I got the hang of facial cleansers, I branched out into other areas.”

  I have to clear my throat before this next part. It’s something I’ve never confessed to anyone. “It sort of became my escape. I may have grown up with money in a luxurious house, but that doesn’t mean it was easy living with that woman. As long as I stayed in my room, experimenting with my products, I didn’t have to face her disappointment.”

  A few beats of silence pass. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine growing up with a parent who—” He shakes his head. “You deserved better than that, Harper.”

  I shrug. “It was a long time ago. Besides, the whole experience gave me an outlet. One I’m grateful for.”

  Not to mention, it taught me an important lesson. My mother is just a closed-off, cold individual that I’ll never be able to reach. That was when I gave up on ever establishing a relationship or bonding with her. In the end, it saved me a lot of time and anguish. And it forced me to grow up a little faster, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  “I know I’ve asked before,” he says gently, “but have you ever seriously considered turning that into more than just an outlet?”

  “Sure. I mean, in a perfect world, I’d be opening up my own shop tomorrow. Have my own product line, sell my stuff all over the country. But you of all people know we don’t live in a perfect world, and starting your own business isn’t that easy. Especially a profitable one.”

  “Taking that first step is scary,” he acknowledges. “But dreaming only gets you so far in life. At some point, you’ve just got to go for it.”

  I swallow, refusing to look away from the rippling waters below us to meet his eyes. “And what if I fail?”

  “Your life isn’t over, I can tell you that. But at least you’d have been brave enough to try. The most successful people are usually the boldest ones.”

  Which has never been my strong suit.

  The last time I was bold enough to listen to my instincts, I took the ultimate plunge with West—short of marriage. And as great as things have been going for us lately, it’s taken us a while to get here. The road has certainly not been smooth. Starting my own business and reaching a point of success would take a hell of a lot longer than four months. And you can damn sure bet that road will be littered with potholes, speed bumps, cracks, and God knows what else.

  “Speaking of,” I say, ready to move on from me, “how’s everything going with the charter company?”

  His fingers tap against the black control stick for a second, clearly wanting to speak more on what I’m trying to avoid. But he wisely follows my lead. “I’ve submitted all my applications for the state and local certifications I need to operate an aviation company. It’s coming up with enough start-up money that’s still the biggest problem. My boss has lowered the price on the helicopter as much as he can for me, but I don’t expect him to just hand it over.”

  “Have you thought about bringing in any investors?”

  More finger tapping. “After speaking with Gretchen, I’ve definitely considered it. She mentioned again that her boss might be interested in investing. She gave me his card. I just need to get in contact with him.”

  “I know Carter has invested in several local businesses, too.” Sloane’s beau is freaking loaded, so he can more than afford it. “Maybe you could talk to him.”

&
nbsp; West rubs the back of his neck before returning his hand to the stick. “I’m not comfortable with turning to friends or family for money. Especially this kind of money. I don’t accept handouts. Never have, never will. I take pride in the fact that I’m where I’m at because I alone have worked my ass off for it.”

  “It’s not charity, West. It’s business. And Carter is a businessman. From what I’ve heard, Gretchen’s boss is, too, and a pretty prominent one in this area. They might be the answer you’ve been searching for.” I look at him pointedly. “You never know if you don’t try, right?”

  He chuckles. “Touché.”

  By the time we do another two laps around downtown Charleston and the harbor, I’m feeling gloriously exhilarated. I can understand what first attracted West to flying. It seduces you, it entrances you. It makes you feel on top of the world because, in a way, you are.

  We touch down on the helipad near Patriot’s Point where we left from. The slab of concrete is on the edge of the now mostly empty parking lot, the park having closed over an hour ago. The sun has lowered in the sky, painting it a pink hue with notes of orange and gold.

  West does some more talking into his radio headset while going through the process of shutting the aircraft down, flipping switches and pushing buttons. After I’ve had time to take stock of everything, I realize that I’m coming down from a small adrenaline rush. My chest is heaving, my heart still racing.

  Now I really get West’s love for flying. It gives you a high like no other.

  Helicopter heroin.

  The blades slowly stop rotating until the whooping sound of their spinning eventually ceases. West removes his headphones and unstraps himself. Then he leans over and repeats the same process with me.

  But once he has my straps unbuckled, he falls back into his own seat.

  Slowly removes his aviators—

  And spreads his legs.