Page 50 of Playboy Pilot

He kissed my lips. “I gotta get back. Take another look at the article. Maybe it’s your sign.”

Confused, I chuckled. “Okay.”

“See you on the ground, beautiful.” He stood and began to walk away when I called after him.

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Do any flight attendants live in your building?”

He gave me a sexy half smile. “Definitely not.”

“Is there a uniformed doorman?”

“Nope.”

“Do you live in a penthouse?”

His half smile widened to a full-fledged grin. “Not even close.”

“So naked women don’t meet you at your door when you get home wearing stilettos?”

He laughed. “Thank Christ, no. You have no idea how funny that question is. If you decide to come home with me, remember what you just asked.”

“Okay.”

After Carter disappeared back into the cockpit, I took out my magazine and flipped through the pages until I came to the story about one of the Kardashian kids. Curious as to what he thought could be a sign for us, I reread the entire article. The story was about Kendall, so there was that commonality, but that was about all I could seem to find that could possibly point me to anything. She had met a new guy, that was sure as heck nothing new, and the article had a few pictures of them kissing and roller skating. Apparently they were on a trip to Miami, so there was a faint Florida connection, too. Unable to break his cryptic message, I figured I’d ask Carter about it when we landed. But then I closed the magazine and his sign hit me right smack in the face.

The cover had various quotes. In the top right-hand corner, there was a picture of Taylor Swift and underneath it read. Taylor: Music is better than sex. I laughed to myself thinking there was no way in hell that was a sign he wanted me to read into. Down at the bottom of the cover was a picture of Kendall Jenner. The words underneath hit me hard, and I knew exactly what Carter had been hoping I’d see as a sign. Kendall: I fell in love in Florida.

WHEN WE LANDED in Dubai, I waited in my seat until the plane was almost empty. After the last person passed, I stuffed my Okay magazine into my bag and made my way to the cockpit where Carter was standing. For the first time ever, he looked nervous. Gone was the smiling, confident, cocky pilot I knew, replaced by something that looked a hell of a lot like vulnerability.

We said nothing until I was standing in front of him. Then, he extended his hand to me hesitantly. “What do you say, Perky? Come home with me?”

I kept a solemn face as I reached up on my tippy toes to almost see eye to eye with him. “How can I possibly go against the advice of a Kardashian?”

FLYING WITH CARTER next to me was so much more fun than having him be in the cockpit where I couldn’t stare at his handsome face. The flights from Dubai to Florida were on a code share, which meant we were on a sister airline and weren’t subjected to Carter’s usual harem of flight attendants for the torturously long flights. We spent fifteen hours flying and changing planes, yet between sleeping with my head on Carter’s chest and playing touchy feely underneath the skimpy flight blanket, I actually enjoyed every moment of the flights. In fact, I felt refreshed when we exited the terminal in Miami.

We hopped a shuttle bus to long-term parking, and when we walked to Carter’s car, I realized just how much I was going to learn about the man by seeing him in his familiar surroundings.

“This is me,” Carter said as we walked to a large, black Suburban. He opened the back hatch and lifted our luggage inside, then walked around to the passenger door, opened it, and helped me hop up and get in.

I turned and checked out the inside while he walked around to the driver’s side. “This thing is huge. I can fit two of my cars inside here. I think I pictured you more in a little sporty two-seater than this bus. Yet somehow, this fits you, too.”

“Used to have exactly that. A little red 1972 Porsche Targa. Loved that thing. Traded it with a friend last year for this beast. He had back surgery and was having trouble hopping up into the high seat, and I needed something bigger for hauling crap around.”

“Hauling crap around?”

Carter put the car into drive and pulled out of the lot. “Yeah. I’m always loading this thing for one reason or another.”

“How long is the drive to your place?”

“About a half-hour. Goes quick, it’s mostly highway.”

During the drive, I went through my emails. There was one I had been avoiding for a few days—responding to my mother. I knew she was at least half loaded when she wrote it, just from her run-on sentences. My well-spoken mother tended to lose her boarding school upbringing after a pint of vodka. Rather than explain what I was really up to, I took the easy way out and emailed back telling her I was traveling with a friend still, and I’d be in touch in a few days.

Before long, we pulled off the highway, made a few quick turns, and were pulling down a road that led to a residential community. The entrance had a large fountain in the middle of a circular drive and a welcoming clubhouse building. To the left and the right, there were entrance gates that blocked passage to what looked like hundreds of condos in a neatly planned community. Carter pulled to the left and stopped to roll down his window and key in a code. The gate slowly opened, and we drove through.