Loving Astrid: Hearts & Tailwinds, #1

By Lorelei Layne

She's a socialite and influencer from wealth and prestige, but has made her own way to the top.

He's an airplane repo pilot, taking away the toys her father's friends and her own clients can no longer afford.

High school sweethearts who thought they'd be together forever, but the tailwinds of life guided their career passions down different paths.

They both had everything in high school. Each other. They both have everything now. Except love.

 

Now, Astrid has flown back into Alex's life, more gorgeous and successful than ever before. More grown up and established. What she doesn't know is how his life has transformed as well, and how dangerous his business and risky has become as of late. They're older now, more mature, but are they ready to make amends and repair up their differences from years ago? Or will their careers destroy any chance they have at a second chance?This time, Alex is going to make Astrid his. No matter where the tailwinds take them.

 

This book can be read as a standalone book. Loving Astrid is Book 2 of the Hearts & Tailwinds series, which follows the introductory novella, Astrid and Alex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorelei Layne
• Release date: Apr 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224760534

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Alex

S o you're telling me that gorgeous, head-turning female… practically floating down from the airplane…. 

My friend and co-worker, Conor, nods in the direction of the Embraer Phenom jet. A gorgeous figure appears like an ethereal fashionista, and Conor strains his neck for a better view. 

"Her. That chick right there. She's your ex-girlfriend?" His voice went up in pitch like a man returning to puberty, like pangs of jealousy had just hit his ballsack. 

I nod. Take a swig of the champagne in my glass. Let an anxiety-filled exhale escape. "Yup. That would be her."

Conor blinks and looks over at the collection of photographers clicking their DSL cameras endlessly, trying to get the perfect shot of the woman descending on the luxury jet's stairs. We're at the airport hangar, watching this beauty and her small entourage disembark the plane, taking a minute to join the welcome party loaded with appetizers and fancy drinks. You're lying. Seriously, man. Not a chance.

Sooooo not lying. Oh, how I almost wish I were. 

It's hard enough to forget your ex when she's everywhere. YouTube. Social media. The new advertisement on the subway's giant billboard. The TV. Instagram. And right now. There she is, poised with a professional smile; she waves to the crowd awaiting her. A flush washes across her face so authentic and genuine, she can't even hide her mild embarrassment with all the attention. Astrid Manning, heiress to a magazine media empire and professional brand influencer, and a savvy socialite. Back in Olympia, our hometown.

The airplane hanger is where I work on a plane I recently repossessed for a bank. I took over the business from my dad, the slightly infamous Hank Paxton. When my dad's sight and overall health took a turn in high school, I took hold of the proverbial wheel and learned the business while he could still teach me. I feel a sense of pride and confidence in how I've grown the company, yet Astrid's presence makes me slightly unsettled and nervous.

Her inbound flight was on the day's manifest. I knew she was coming. Yet, I chose not to go home for the day or back to our private hangar, where we store planes and work on them for my company. Because like in all the harrowing experiences I face doing airplane repossessions, I'm a glutton for punishment and awkward situations. 

And today is no exception. 

"This was your first girlfriend?" Conor's eyebrows are arched in friendly suspicion. 

My first. Things happened. A message was sent. Years passed by.

I'm still trying to get my arms around this. Conor has arms the size of tree trunks. He takes a drink of his imported beer, drains it in one swig, and sets it on the catering table with a thud. "You went out with the Astrid Manning?"

The one and only. My sophomore through senior years. I ended things right before Astrid left for college. We logistically fell apart. I had to take over my dad's repo business, something he had been conditioning me to do for years. 

She was gone. Astrid took her natural charm, gift for finding a new flood of friends, went into marketing, creating a whole new life for herself. Became a socialite influencer brands beg to wear or mention their products. Everywhere Astrid goes, the media follows, wanting to talk to her about her wardrobe, who she's wearing, what she thinks, what's worth buying that week, and where she's going. Her popularity and social status grew and skyrocketed after she graduated college. 

I still remember her as the girl I used to have lattes with at the local coffee shop. The same girl who would get a foam mustache above her lip. On purpose. Just to get me to laugh. 

Trying to forget her would only get worse as time wore on. Astrid would become my constant reminder of just how big of an idiot I am for breaking up with her. 

Yes. I broke up with Astrid Manning.

What the hell was I thinking? 

When you're eighteen, fresh out of high school, and longing for a sense of freedom yet plagued with the onset of responsibility, you make many stupid mistakes. At the time, I was stuck. Balancing two life jobs at once. 

"So, what exactly happened? C'mon, man, I need details. Who broke up with who and, more importantly, why?" Conor asks. 

When I confess my connection to Astrid, it gets a little tricky. I broke up with her. Just seemed like the time. We were headed in different directions.

His mouth drops. An incredulous gaping look forms on his face. Are you fricking mad, man?

She needed to focus on college. I had to run the business and try to go to school at the same time. I take another glass of champagne off a tray that floats by, carefully balanced by the server. The raspberries garnishing the sparkling drink floated sank to the bottom of the glass. It just wasn't going to work. 

Loud clapping filled the hangar, and I glance over to see Astrid wrapping up a statement outside with some paparazzi and accept some champagne as she enters the space. She shakes hands while her assistant writes things down in a notebook. OMG, she's so nice! I thought she was going to be stuck up and condescending, but she's actually cool! I overhear a reporter comment. 

Of course. Astrid is. Always has been. 

And she's always genuine about it. Astrid's always been patient to a fault, kind, and generous with her time.

Was she high maintenance or something? Did she start going out with other guys, and you found out? Conor makes a curious face. Was it her dad's money that got in the way?

No, she wasn't. And no, she didn't date anyone else that I know of. Her dad might have been a factor in a way, but it was just a matter of time. Logistics, really. Oh, what an ass I was. We could have done the long-distance thing. But it was true. Her father wasn't exactly thrilled with my line of work and viewed the airline repo business as something less than or beneath his daughter. 

Eirik Manning's wealth was one to be respected and admired. And my attraction to adrenaline rushes in seizing aircraft isn't precisely a danger he wants his daughter affiliated with, let alone his circle of business alliances. That brought up countless problems when we were dating. She couldn't be my entire world when part of it included doing something I loved. Even though in my heart, she was everything I ever wanted.

I ended things between us anyway.

I was stuck back home in Olympia, Washington, at the Paxton base hangar, and she took off like an X-15. Her life changed for the better. Astrid had new opportunities thrown at her every day, places to travel to, brands sending her gifts and swag in hopes that she'd wear or feature them on her channels. There was no competing with that. I wasn't man enough to deal with her budding social life once she went from minor status to adult in the eyes of the paparazzi. Even in the summer before college, she was a hot item. I didn't have the time, nor the money, to compete for her time. 

So I ended things via text.

Sighing with a sense of regret weighing heavily on my heart, I shift my feet on the concrete floor and stare at her. Hoping she doesn't see me and run or get visibly upset. I'm pretty sure I wrecked her.

What? She looks fine, bro. C'mon. Look at her. She's in her element. I nod and look through my champagne glass, now almost empty, and she becomes blurred. Get over it. She's gorgeous. You know, it, I know it, and she has a new guy on her arm at every single event, probably. At least, that's what her Instagram shows. Conor is scrolling through her profile page with one hand, beer in the other. 

I grab his phone to look. He spills his beer. 

Hey, easy, buddy, Conor tells me and vocalizes some anger in his tone. You don't spill imported beer! That kind of shit is for domestic only! he jokes. Except for craft beer. That's the exception. 

Sorry, I mutter, scrolling through her Instagram pictures and seeing all the guys she's meeting as she travels. Dozens of them. Conor peers over my arm and points to one of the pictures.

Isn't that what's-his-face from that one outfitter company? He's always got his shirt half-buttoned? Like wearing a shirt is difficult, and he doesn't know how buttons are supposed to work? I rub my temples. I feel like a headache is coming on. The guy doesn't even look like he's split a stack of wood. Yet, he's sporting a flannel shirt. 

Geez. I can't even look anymore, I say and hand Conor back his phone. 

No matter what I say to people, they don't believe me. They look at gorgeous Astrid Manning and are instantly entranced by her. They have difficulty comprehending that some guy practically stealing airplanes from rich people could have hurt her so badly. 

But I did. I know just how bad, too. I broke my girlfriend's heart, and mine too, and it hurt. The problem? I can't take back what I did, and I have to live with my insecure decisions until the end of time. Instead of having some hired pilot flying her everywhere, that could've been me, helping her down off the jet and kissing her before she met with reporters. Letting the world know she and I were together. Me and her. Flying with her, holding her, loving her. 

Loving Astrid…

Aw, man, c'mon, forget her. Conor grabs another beer, takes a long drink, and sets another empty glass down. He puts his arm around me and messes with my hair. Hey. At least you have us. 

Yeah. My team. While my employees are great people and work hard, it's not like I can date any of them. I thought about dating Caragh, one of my office managers, but ultimately decided against it. I didn't want to be that kind of boss.

You need to get out and go on a date. To forget your ex. Caragh is super hot. I'd date her, Conor says.

She's great, yeah, I know, I affirm. Caragh has been working in my dispatch office for the last couple of years, and I know she has tried to flirt with me since day one. We haven't gone out officially. We've only hung out together with the team at company-sponsored events. I've been too cautious about letting things get serious. We have a company outing on Saturday night to go bowling, so it'll give me a chance to talk to her more. Or, maybe it'll give me an excuse not to think about Astrid Manning being in town.

Then on Sunday, I will go spot a jet for a bank worth over $2.4 million and check for access to it. If I can snatch it right then and there, I've been instructed to take possession. The debtor is six months behind already, and the bank really wants this particular Dassault Falcon back in its control. I'm excited about the bank's repo request. 

I can see Conor is way more into Caragh and excited about her than I am. 

She's totally hot, dude, Conor reminds me, punching my abs in jest. You two would be great together. You know… her in the office telling you where the planes are, and you and me doing the runs and snatching planes from deadbeats. At night, you can moonlight as more than friends.

Maybe. My glass of champagne is empty, my guts hurt from being punched, both physically and mentally. And I can't find the bartender for another drink. He went missing in action. Dammit.

Another round of applause fills the hangar with reverberating noise. I glance over and see Astrid and her entourage making the rounds post-speech on the red carpet. I can't look away. She's stunning. Her pale blue dress drapes beautifully around her slender yet curvy figure, leaving much to my imagination. Look away now, dammit.

But I can't. 

"I still can't believe you dated her. Like, you knew her and liked her before she ever became cool."

I turn to face Conor. Think I'm lying, bro?

His eyes widen, surprised by the confrontation. No, dude, no, no. It's just… how am I only finding out about this now? We've worked together for several years now, and you'd think this would have come up a while ago. 

He's right. Conor came to work for the Paxton Airline Investigations & Recovery while I was still in college, getting my business degree. While I was in class, he'd be at the hangar processing planes we'd just seized. But it wasn't a subject I liked talking about much, and it's not easy telling people I have a history with the famous Astrid Manning. She deserved her privacy given what I'd done to her. Conor's response in disbelief is precisely why I keep that information to myself.

After Astrid and I broke up, she started getting a little famous on social media. No one believed me that we dated. I was just a gearhead to them at the time, working on planes and getting them ready for sale by the banks. All while starting college, attending a trade school for airline mechanics, and taking over my dad's company. And while that was true, I don't think anyone realized just how much money I made stealing planes from hangars (legally stealing, of course). They thought I was just a poser. 

Because who in their right mind would actually break up with Astrid Manning?

It wasn't exactly a conversation of choice. I shrug. The bartender finally comes back with a serving tray on wheels, loaded with booze. I'm relieved.

Puh-lease. I'd be bragging about being her ex left and right and posting our old selfies together all over social media. Conor's eyes drift towards Astrid. I'd totally do her. But, because we're pals, I know she's off-limits. Hey—do you see that sign? 

I squint in the direction of where Conor is pointing. Her assistant has Astrid's itinerary set up on a poster board and easel. Another one of her entourage, probably a public relations partner, is making an announcement to the posse of reporters and media personnel. Astrid is standing behind her, poised for camera shots, smiling, but I can see it's strained. It's her 'I'm officially done with all of this' smile I've come to notice over the years. I know that uncomfortable smile a mile away. I first saw it back in high school when a teacher was making sexist comments. He commented about the abilities and roles of women, and it took everything for her to hold back and not punch him in the face.

Smart women don't need to entertain insipid men with their time, she later told me. I took her out for ice cream and lattes, and we ate it in the comfy leather seats of a plane my dad had just repossessed. We watched movies all night. 

Astrid will be giving a presentation on influencer branding for young entrepreneurs at the Luxford Hotel, next to the airport, on Friday night, the public relations woman said. It will be an intimate evening and look into the world of Astrid Manning, the United States' most influential branding socialite.

Intimate? How intimate? Astrid is relatively private about her life behind the scenes, and I highly doubt she'll open up about much.  

We'll be sharing a short video of her behind-the-scenes activities, daily life, and her home in Port Townsend, Washington. Astrid nodded in agreement and smiled again for the cameras. 

A reporter starts butting in with questions about Astrid's love life and who she'll be bringing to dinner. 

Astrid will be offering the audience a wealth of knowledge in social branding. She'll also share insider tips on the life of an influencer, pros, and cons, as well as opening up about her personal life, her PR person says. Astrid shifts her stance and looks visibly uncomfortable behind the curtain of poise. 

A reporter gets up from a kneeled position and points a microphone in her direction. Astrid, now that you're back in your hometown of Olympia, do you ever contemplate getting in touch with some of your high school friends? Any past boyfriends from high school or the one who got away?

Astrid relaxes her shoulders, accepts the microphone, and for a minute, pauses. There's now extreme warmth in her presence. Her face softens… God. She's sexy.

Looking directly into the eyes of the reporter, she lifts the microphone up. She says in a familiar, loving tone, I think about him all the time.

Her words make my entire body freeze. Is she… talking about…

Me? 

No. No way. 

Does she even know I'm here in the hangar? That I still exist?

Conor looks over at me with eyes wide open. 

"Oh, day-um, player!" he whispers. 

The reporters start talking among themselves, and Astrid gives back the microphone. The PR woman continues to make announcements, but I don't hear them. All I caught was seven o'clock on Friday night. 

Alex, there's no way in hell she's talking about you, right? You broke up with her! Over a fricking text message! Conor stares at me while stuffing his face with spicy meatballs on colorful fancy toothpicks. Dude, did you hear her voice? It melts butter, man. She can sauce my pan anytime.

I just stand there. Thoughts race through my head on who could be the alternative of who she's talking about. No one comes to mind. I mentally scroll through her social media images, and not a single long-term boyfriend came to mind. 

"Do you think she's talking about you? Oh my God, you do, don't you? Answer me, you man twat! Conor hissed. I need a beer. Hold my balls." 

Man, Conor needs a filter even more than a 1950s air tractor does.

I take his plate of meatballs and stand there, frozen in my thoughts. I hope I become invisible so I can look at Astrid and watch her again. She thinks about someone. Someone from her past. All the time? 

She must be talking about me. 

I order a shot of whiskey from the bartender and sip on it slowly. Maybe she's talking about me. 

Or not.

CHAPTER TWO

Alex

It's finally Friday, and it's almost time to close up shop at the hangar. I have a newly repossessed Cessna Citation sitting in the yard that Florida State Bank in Tallahassee has searched for for the last two months. Their usual repo guy couldn't track it down, so they called us. The GPS tracking device has been disabled, so the bank has no clue where it might be. After some hunting on social media, I found out the owner has a side piece outside of his marriage in Salt Lake City. So I checked the local airport, and voila, there it was. Hidden in plain sight. 

Conor and I flew down there in our company plane and grabbed it at four o'clock in the morning, long before anyone would notice it was gone. Some people post way too much information about their lives on social media. It can burn them. 

Today we are lucky. There have been no interactions with the owner and no one giving us grief when we slapped the papers on the plane. Repo notices indicate it's now owned by the bank and their property, with my company as its authorized custodian. Getting that paperwork stickered on is just one of the battles.

When you're trying to get a plane back to the lienholder, you never know what kind of condition it's in or whether its service records are up to date. The logbooks have to be reviewed, all systems checked, and all that has to be done before you can even take off. And you hope and pray that whoever is responsible for the hangar hasn't been paid off by the owner to hassle you. 

Sometimes you get lucky. Other times you get shot at. It depends on the day.

It's just Conor and me finishing logs for the week and Caragh at the front desk. I'm making a note to add the hangar manager at SLC airport to my Christmas list. $500 gift card. Check. Sometimes it's nice to have the proverbial wheels greased at hangars you've had to swipe planes at in the