"Oh, Blair…" My stomach drops. "Is he going to be okay?"
"I don't know," she says, running a hand through her hair again. "I'm so sorry, but I have to leave."
"Of course," I say immediately. "I can call you a cab to the airport?—"
"No need, I've already taken care of it." Her phone buzzes and she glances at the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this." She heads back outside, pressing the phone to her ear.
I turn to the manager, who's still standing nearby.
"Excuse me," I say. "Do you know if the taxi is on its way? For my girlfriend?"
The manager frowns. "A taxi? No, Ms. Davis’s assistant arranged for a helicopter. It should be landing shortly."
I blink. "Ms. Davis?"
"Yes." He glances at his notes. "Ms. Blair Davis. She has a retainer with a private aviation service. I’ve just given them permission to land in the field."
“But she’s…” My voice trails off as my mind starts spinning. Davis. Not Miller. An assistant. And a helicopter. A private aviation retainer.
I'm still trying to process this when Blair pushes back through the entrance. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her jaw tight. She strides directly to me, cups my face in her hands, and kisses me.
The kiss happens so fast I barely register it. One second I'm standing here, utterly confused from what the manager just toldme, and the next her mouth is on mine. My hands instinctively reach up to touch her face, but she pulls away and steps back.
"I'll explain everything when we're back in New York, okay? I promise," she says, clearly panicked. "I have to get to the hospital."
"Wait," I manage. "Blair?—"
But she's running through the restaurant, heading for the back exit. She bursts through the rear doors.
My cousin Jake is staring after her with raised brows. The rest of my family has stood up now.
"What's going on?" Mom asks as I approach her.
"Her brother’s in hospital," I say. "In North Carolina."
Blair crosses the terrace, jumps over the fence, then continues to run toward the middle of the field.
"Uh, hate to break it to her," Jake says, "but North Carolina's the other way."
I shoot him a look that could kill. "It's not funny, Jake."
"I'm just saying," Jake holds up his hands defensively. "If she's planning to run the whole way, she'll need directions."
That's when I hear it. A low, rhythmic thumping that's getting louder by the second, coming from somewhere overhead.
"Well, I'll be damned," Grandma Ruth mutters. "Would you look at that."
"Holy fuck," Uncle Pete says, and nobody bothers to scold him for the language because we're all staring like kids watching a parade.
The helicopter appears—sleek and black with blinking navigation lights. It circles once, then begins to descend toward the exact spot where Blair is waving.
The downdraft from the rotors flattens the field in a wide circle. Even through the closed doors, the thunderous roar of the engine is deafening.
The aircraft touches down and Blair sprints toward it. The rotors are still spinning when she yanks open the door. For just a split second, she turns back toward the restaurant—toward us—and even from this distance I can see her scanning the windows.
Then she climbs inside, the door closes, and the helicopter lifts off. Within seconds, it's just another set of blinking lights in the distance, disappearing toward the south.
The silence that follows is absolute. Nobody speaks. We just stand there staring out at the empty field.
