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Duke pouts. “You know that’s not the case. We just need you.”

“You don’t even have trips for me to fly. Brent has all of signature handled, and I don’t want to fly anything but private.”

Brent is one of the other Greenway Signature pilots. There aren’t many of us, and when his wife got pregnant last fall, he jumped at the chance for my hours. I wasn’t going to stop the guy; he had a family to feed. It’s not like the regular person is chartering a private flight on a regular basis. Sure, there are millionaires and billionaires who do, but they typically have their own pilots.

I’m a contract pilot, and that’s exactly the way I prefer it.

“Brent needs a fucking break, and you need to get back to work.”

I roll my eyes, pretending to scroll on my phone to avoid his scrutiny.

“Give me another week,” I mumble.

“C’mon, Jett, what’s a week going to do?”

Hopefully, a lot.

Flying used to be my gateway into the life I no longer live. Different women every night, flying from one destination to the next, knowing every stop meant someone new. Not a trace of commitment in sight, just how I like it. But I don’t live that way anymore, and getting out of the air was the only way I was going to be able to stop that lifestyle. I know I need to get back to work, I want to, but it can’t be the same routes I always take. I can’t be tempted to fall back into the same antics, not when all I want to do is change.

I keep my stoic stare placed on my brother, hardening it so he gets the memo to drop the fucking harassing.

“Fine, but don’t wait much longer,” Duke grits out, clearly fed up.

“Who’s ready for ice cream?”

My mom and Sienna step through the sliding glass door, wide-eyed and giddy, with no idea what they just walked into.

The air at the table is tense, Duke and I leaving no welcome for dessert, and our father watching silently as his sons go head-to-head.

In actuality, Duke isn’t the nuisance I make him out to be. But seeing him with the new love of his life, his family, has only fueled the dwindling fire that is my life.

Add a little interrogation, and it feels like I’m in a classified horror film.

“Vanilla bean, your favorite,” my mom coos, putting a bowl in front of me.

“I think I’m going to pass. I’ve got to get going.”

Rising from my seat, I pluck a spoonful just to get a taste, groaning at how perfect her homemade ice cream comes out every time.

I can’t help myself.

“Thanks for dinner, Mom. It was delicious.”

My sneaky taste grants me a smirk from her, paired with a stare that silently asks if everything’s okay. She knows all of us so well.

“Honey, did you know they’re having some sort of model convention in the city?” Her colorful country twang asks as I back my way through the dining room, gathering my keys.

I stand at the open patio door, putting my exit in motion. “Haven’t really paid much attention, but I’m going to head out.”

Annoyed by even the smallest thought of a woman, I remember the time when I’d pull enough strings just to make myself a damn judge at something like that.

Not anymore.

The name Jett Parker became interchangeable with “manwhore” before I even knew the finality behind it. My wealth was only part of the lore. My height, tattoos, and unstoppable wit played the rest of the game, and played it damn well.

Two years ago, though, something changed within me.

One night, with one woman, made me want to give it all up.