Part 1 (1/2)

Managed.

a VIP novel.

Kristen Callihan.

MANAGED.

It started off as a battle of wits. Me: the ordinary girl with a big mouth against Him: the s.e.xy b.a.s.t.a.r.d with a big...ego.

I thought I'd hit the jackpot when I was upgraded to first cla.s.s on my flight to London.

That is until HE sat next to me. Gabriel Scott: handsome as sin, cold as ice. Nothing and no one gets to him. Ever. He's a legend in his own right, the manager of the biggest rock band in the world, and an arrogant a.s.s who looks down his nose at me.

I thought I'd give him h.e.l.l for one, long flight. I didn't expect to like him. I didn't expect to want him. But the biggest surprise? He wants me too. Only in a way I didn't see coming.

If I accept his proposal, I leave myself open to falling for the one man I can't manage. But I'm tempted to say yes. Because the real man beneath those perfect suits and that cool facade just might be the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I just might be the only one who can melt the ice around his heart.

Let the battle begin...

Author Note.

A long time ago, I fell in love with a young man, and his favorite band in the whole world was Soda Stereo, a Spanish rock band from Argentina. Many of you probably have never heard of them, but they used to sell out 100,000 plus stadiums, sold over seventeen million alb.u.ms, and even had an MTV Unplugged session-which I highly recommend looking up.

I've only seen my-now husband-cry on a few occasions. The day he learned Gustavo Cerati, Soda Stereo's lead singer, had died was one of them. That is the power that music can wield-that musicians can feel like friends, someone who expresses your pain, joy, love, or hate with their sound. I always think about this when I write these novels. And how wonderful it would be to play even some small part in bringing music to the world.

Love is what you do in life- Gabriel Scott.

Love is who you do in life-Sophie Darling.

Chapter One.

Sophie.

You know those people who Lady Luck always seems to be kissing on the cheek? The one who gets a promotion just for showing up to work? Who wins that awesome raffle prize? The person who finds a hundred-dollar bill on the ground? Yeah, that's not me. And it's probably not most of us. Lady Luck is a selective b.i.t.c.h.

But today? Lady Luck has finally turned her gaze upon me. And I want to bow down in grat.i.tude. Because today, I've been upgraded to first cla.s.s for my flight to London. Maybe it's due to overbooking, and who knows why they picked me, but they did. First f.u.c.king cla.s.s, baby. I'm so giddy, I practically dance to my seat.

And, oh, what a beautiful seat it is, all plush cream leather and burled wood paneling-though I'm guessing it's fake wood for safety reasons. Not that it matters. It's a little self-contained pod, complete with a cubby for my bag and shoes, a bar, an actual reading lamp, and a widescreen TV.

I sink into the seat with a sigh. It's a window seat, sectioned off from my neighbor by a frosted gla.s.s panel I can lower with the touch of a b.u.t.ton. Or the two seats can become one cozy cabin by closing the glossy panel that sections off the aisle. It reminds me of an old-fas.h.i.+oned luxury train compartment.

I'm one of the first people on board, so I give in to temptation and rifle through all the goodies they've left me: mints, fuzzy socks, sleep mask, and-ooh-a little bag of skin care products. Next I play around with my seat, raising and lowering my privacy screen-that is until it makes an ominous-sounding click. The screen freezes an inch above the divider and refuses to rise again.

Cringing, I s.n.a.t.c.h my hand away and busy myself with removing my shoes and flipping through the first cla.s.s menu. It's long, and everything looks delicious. Oh man, how am I supposed to go back to the cattle-roundup, meat-or-chicken-in-a-tin h.e.l.l that is economy cla.s.s after this?

I'm debating whether to get a preflight champagne c.o.c.ktail or gla.s.s of white wine when I hear the man's voice. It's deep, crisply British, and very annoyed.

”What is that woman doing in my seat?”

My neck tenses, but I don't look up. I'm a.s.suming he means me. His voice is coming from somewhere over my head, and there are only male pa.s.sengers in here aside from me.

And he is wrong, wrong, wrong. I'm in my seat. I checked twice, pinched myself, checked again, and then finally sat down. I know I'm where I'm supposed to be-just not how I got away with it. Hey, I was as surprised as anyone when I went to the ticket counter, only to be informed I was in first cla.s.s. No way am I going back to coach now.

My fingers grip the menu as I make a pretense of flipping through it. I'm really eavesdropping at this point. The flight attendant's response is too low to hear, but his isn't.

”I expressly purchased two seats on this flight. Two. For the simple purpose that I would not be seated next to anyone else.”

Well, that's...decadent? Whacked? I struggle not to make a face. Who does that? Is it really so awful to sit next to someone? Has this guy seen economy? We can count each other's nose hairs back there. Here, my chair is so wide, I'm a good foot away from his stupid seat.

”I'm so sorry, sir,” the flight attendant answers in a near purr, which is weird. She should be annoyed. Maybe it's all part of the kiss-the-first-cla.s.s-pa.s.sengers'-a.s.ses-because-they-paid-a-s.h.i.+t-ton-to-be-here program. ”The flight is overbooked, and all seats are spoken for.”

”Which is why I purchased two seats,” he snaps.

She murmurs something soothing again. I can't hear because two men walking past me to get to their seats are talking about stock options. They pa.s.s, and I hear Mr. Snooty again.

”This is unacceptable.”

A movement to my right, and I nearly jump. I see the red suit coat of the flight attendant as she bends close, her arm at the man's screen b.u.t.ton. Heat invades my cheeks, even as she starts to explain, ”There's a screen for privacy...”

She stops because the screen isn't rising.

I burrow my nose in the menu.

”It doesn't b.l.o.o.d.y work?” This from Snooty.

The rest goes just about as well as you'd expect. He rants, she placates, I hide between page one and two of the menu.

”Perhaps I can persuade someone to exchange seats?” the helpful flight attendant offers.

Yes, please. Fob him off on someone else.

”What difference does it make?” Snooty snaps. ”The point was to have an empty seat next to mine.”

I'd love to suggest he wait for the next flight and save us all a headache, but that's not in the cards. The standoff ends with the jerk plopping into his seat with an exasperated huff. He must be big, because I feel the whoosh of air as he does it.

The heat of his glare is tangible just before he turns away.

f.u.c.ker.

Slapping my menu down, I decide, f.u.c.k it; I'm having some fun with this. What can they do? They're loading the plane; my seat is secure.