“Not yet,” he teased. “Though Mrs. Kowalski might eventually pack my bags for me if I keep disrupting her schedules.” His expression shifted, excitement in his eyes. “Actually, I’m kidnapping you.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I checked with Michael and Shelly—they’re taking your kids for the weekend. Mrs. Kowalski has mine. And you...” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “You are coming with me.”
“Coming with you where? Patrick, I have a pile of paperwork on the dining room table that?—”
“Can wait until Tuesday,” he finished. “You defeated a corporate coup, Theresa. You deserve more than a weekend of spreadsheets.”
He pressed the envelope into my hand. “Open it.”
I opened the flap, expecting a hotel confirmation or maybe concert tickets. Instead, I pulled out a passport.
My passport.
“How did you—” I started, looking up at him in shock.
“Michael helped me locate it,” Patrick said. “Check the paper inside.”
I unfolded the single sheet of heavy cream paper tucked into the passport. It was a flight itinerary with a private aviation logo at the top.
PASSENGER MANIFEST DEPARTURE: San Jose International (SJC) - Private Terminal DESTINATION: Edinburgh Airport (EDI) TIME: 19:00
“Edinburgh?” I read the destination, my breath catching. I looked up at him, stunned. “Scotland? You’re taking me to Scotland?”
“I want to show you where I come from,” he said simply. “I want you to see Eidheann. My home.”
“Patrick, that’s... that’s across an ocean. We can’t just leave.”
“Why not?”
“Because... the kids... the company...” I trailed off, running out of excuses. The kids were safe with family who loved them. The company was secure for the first time in months.
“Four days,” Patrick said, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “The jet leaves at seven. Say yes.”
“You chartered a jet?” I stared at him. I knew Patrick had money—serious money—but I also knew he drove a five-year-old Land Rover.
“I know,” he said, looking almost sheepish. “It’s a colossal waste of money, usually. I’d normally just book on BA via Heathrow—business class is perfectly adequate, and owning a plane is afinancial black hole. But for this? For you? I didn’t want to waste a single second in a terminal.”
I looked at him—this man who had fought beside me, who was practical and grounded but would break his own rules to give me the world. I looked at the passport in my hand.
Then I thought of Paris, telling me to wear the sparkly shoes. Telling me to live.
“Yes,” I said, a smile spreading across my face. “Yes. Let’s go to Scotland.”
I slept for most of the flight, curled against Patrick in the private jet’s bedroom. The release of tension after months of constant vigilance knocked me out almost as soon as we reached cruising altitude.
When we landed in Edinburgh, the light had a distinct quality—softer, more diffuse, as if filtered through memory rather than air. A sleek black Range Rover waited on the tarmac with a gray-haired man in a tweed jacket standing beside it.
“Mr. McCrae,” he called, his Scottish accent much thicker than Patrick’s. “Welcome home, sir.”
“Douglas,” Patrick replied warmly, shaking the man’s hand. “Good to see you. This is Theresa Carideo.”
Douglas gave me a small bow. “A pleasure, Miss. We’ve heard so much about you.”
“You have?” I glanced at Patrick, who had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
“I may have mentioned you once or twice when I called to arrange things,” he admitted.
