We’ll board the jet again around 9:00 p.m. Sunday night, Paris time, fly through the night, and touch down in Boston at approximately 2:30 a.m. EST Monday, then hop a quick flight to Maplewick and be home by 3:30 a.m.
That’s the agenda.
Every detail’s in place. Gina made sure of it—securing everything from the in-flight menu to a perfectly fitted cashmere blanket in case Rhea wants to nap en route.
But when she boards the little plane in Maplewick, she has no idea, and she looks nervous. Her hand is clenched around her phone, trying to act calm for my sake.
“I’ve never flown in a small plane before,” she says, a little breathlessly.
I take her hand. “Quick trip.”
The flightisshort, but pretty bumpy. Something not in my control.
We land in Boston just after 8:30 a.m. The hangar is mostly quiet, the sun starting to warm the tarmac. She walks down the stairs, looking around, a little disoriented.
“Lead on,” she says with a smile, “Show me your city.”
“Well, not quite yet.” I say, I take her hand again and point across the hangar.
The jet is gleaming. Larger. Sleek. The flight crew is already standing at the bottom of the steps. “This way,” I say, smiling. “I believe they’re expecting us.”
She stares at me. “What?”
I lean in and say with a wink, “That’s the one headed to Paris.”
She blinks once. Twice. “You’re kidding me.”
I shake my head. “Not even a little.”
And then she launches into my arms, sunglasses falling off the perch atop her head, and I twirl her once—ignoring the screaming in my shoulder—just to hear her laugh.
That look on her face?
Maybe money can’t buy happiness.
But it sure as hell can give you a place to start.
TWENTY-SEVEN
RHEA
Paris. Actual, honest-to-God Paris.
I’m on a plane—a jet, aprivate jet—headed to Paris. And I can’t stop crying. Not sobbing, not hiccuping into a tissue. Just… quiet, stunned tears. Tears of joy. Of disbelief. Of total, dizzying, breathtaking overwhelm.
He’s plannedeverything.
From the moment we stepped off that tiny Maplewick puddle-jumper, I’ve felt like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. The way he took my hand and said,“It’s this way,”like he was leading me into a dream.
And then the second plane—this one—so sleek and impossibly elegant, with a crew that treats us like royalty. Like this is just a normal Friday.
Somehow, he even made arrangements with Laney. Not just for Saturday night, but Sunday night too. Because we won’t be back until around early. Monday morning.
And that little shit has evidently used her key to my house to retrieve my passport—and smuggled it into the side pocket of my bag. I should be furious.
But of course, she knows me.
If I’d known, chances are I would’ve come up with a hundred reasons not to go. But here I am.
