Page 5 of Clock Strikes Paradise

“Here we are,” the driver announced, putting the car into park. “I’ll take care of your luggage, and your ID has already been processed. You go right ahead and board the plane.”

“Thanks for the ride, Fred.”

Exiting the car, I gulped at the impressive aircraft before me. I’d never been near Clay’s private Gulfstream jet. I felt like I was stepping into an entirely different world, one where anything could happen.

Climbing the steps to the entrance, I debated if the tropical destination might be enough to coax him out of his designer suits and into something more casual. I laughed quietly at the thought, shaking my head. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept in a suit. I reached the top of the staircase and stepped onboard. As soon as I entered the cabin, my gaze landed on Clay as he sat in an oversized cream-colored leather seat.

And he wasn’t in formal business attire.

My billionaire boss was dressed in a light-blue Lacoste polo the exact same shade as his eyes and a pair of gray cargo shorts.

Shorts!

My gaze quickly took in a pair of muscular calves anchored in Italian leather loafers. His normally immaculately groomed hair was more natural today, and a section in the front had dropped onto his forehead. He absentlybrushed it back. My eyes widened, and I felt both overdressed and a little embarrassed that I had misjudged him.

“Welcome aboard,” he greeted me politely, his voice deep and cool. “Please have a seat. The flight attendant will bring you some coffee.” He indicated the seat across the aisle from him.

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to sound composed despite my disquiet. As I settled into the plush leather seat, Clay checked his Philippe Patek watch with a frown.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he assured me. “Bart just called to say he’s running late. We should be taking off shortly.”

“Ah, I see,” I said, nodding.

After I’d received my coffee and enjoyed half of the rich brew, the sound of footsteps climbing the jet’s stairs caught my attention, signaling Bart’s arrival. He stepped into view, wearing khakis paired with a plaid button-down shirt that had seen better days. His outfit was a far cry from Clay’s effortlessly stylish look.

“Hey there, Elise!” Bart greeted me with an enthusiastic tone after exchanging more subdued hellos with Clay. He pleaded bad traffic for the delay.

I forced a smile. “Good morning, Bart.”

As the CFO took a seat behind me, I glanced over at Clay, who had been engrossed in theWall Street Journal. He carefully folded the paper, his brows lowered as he frowned at us. “Now that you’re all here, let’s go.” Picking up a wall phone next to his seat, he notified someone, presumably the pilot, that we were ready to leave.

As the plane taxied down the runway, Bart leaned forward. “Your first private jet ride? I’ve been on plenty with Clay. Never gets old.”

“Sure different than flying coach,” I agreed,trying not to grimace at the scent of bacon on his breath. I shifted away from him and tried to appear unfazed. I’d been on plenty of commercial flights, but this was a different world. One I’d never experienced. And one that I’d leave behind the moment we returned to New York. I decided to concentrate on the tasks awaiting me once we landed—verifying documents, attending meetings, and ensuring everything went smoothly for Podium’s benefit.

Once we were airborne, I studied my surroundings more closely. The interior of the Gulfstream was something out of a movie. Gleaming wood paneling lined the walls, and buttery-soft cream leather seats were arranged in a spacious seating area. Two polished tables, crafted from some exotic wood, stood with the aisle separating them. The three of us sat in a separate section, with pairs of chairs in two rows. It was difficult to ignore the view of the city shrinking below, a miniature gray landscape of skyscrapers and winding streets.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” a young woman asked as she emerged from what I presumed was the galley. Her name tag readBrenda, and she was dressed in a smart black uniform with a crisp white scarf knotted at her neck.

“Coffee, please,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant and probably failing.

Brenda nodded and disappeared. Moments later, she returned with a silver tray, setting down a bone china cup and saucer. Next to it, she placed a delicate puff pastry dusted with powdered sugar.

The flight attendant soon reappeared, her expression alert. “Mr. Harmon, breakfast is ready whenever you are.”

Clay nodded, closing his laptop. “Thank you, Brenda.”

She gestured to a small table set up with white linen and silverware. “Please follow me.”

We moved to the section with seats around the two tables, with Clay and Bart sitting side by side and me across from them. Brenda served us a breakfast of eggs Benedict, fresh fruit, and an unbelievable amount of cheeses and pastries. I watched as Clay casually took a bite of his eggs as he read the paper, like he ate meals this delicious every single day. I focused on my own plate, forcing myself to ignore the opulence surrounding us. This was Clay’s world, but it sure wasn’t mine.

As we ate, Bart continued to chatter about nothing of importance. I did my best to tune him out, thankful when he finally leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Within minutes, soft snores emanated from him.

Figures. Even when he’s asleep, he can’t keep his damn mouth shut.

As Clay darted a glance at Bart, a flash of irritation crossed his face before he schooled his features into a neutral mask. He pulled out his laptop and began typing, effectively shutting us both out. And that prompted me to work on my own tasks.