“I’m so sorry,” a polite female voice cut in from behind, “but are you Emma Whitehart?”
Emma whirled, exasperation flaring. “Yes, but I’m kind of in the middle of a—”
She blinked. The woman wore a red uniform—flight attendant, maybe. Blonde hair in a sleek bun, rosy cheeks, her polished façade cracked only by the excited recognition in her eyes.
Emma’s eyes swept the woman’s blazer, hope surging. “Can you help me?” she blurted. “I need to get to Terminal Two as fast as possible. Someone I need to reach is about to board for JFK.”
Her eyes widened. “Is it . . . him?”
Emma exhaled shakily. God, her life had gotten weird. She nodded.
The woman checked her watch, focus sharpening. “Matt,” she said, crisp and efficient. “Book her on the two-thirty Chicago flight. Now.”
Emma fumbled for her ID, relief and panic colliding so hard she almost dropped it. Maybe—just maybe...
“Thanks,” she breathed when the woman handed her back the cards and a printed ticket. Her gaze dropped to the name tag. “Chloe.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Chloe said, gripping her arm lightly. “Come with me. If there’s the slightest chance, I’ll get you there. But it’s going to be tight.”
Emma sprinted after her. Chloe flashed her badge like a weapon, sweeping them past the snaking security line. The agents at the scanners waved them through without a second look.
Noise slammed into her the second they cleared security. The terminal was bedlam—Comic-Con spillover swallowing every inch of space.Teenagers in graphic tees jammed the walkways, families camped on the floor, and a flash mob of Minions chanted something unintelligible by the food court.
Emma’s panic spiked. She’d never find him in this madness.
Chloe pointed ahead. “Gate 45 is straight down that way. I can call for a courtesy cart, but—”
Emma stared at the stream of bodies, the clogged arteries of the terminal. A cart weaving through this? It would be a crawl.
“Faster to run,” Emma said, already moving. She looked back. “Thank you, Chloe! I’ll put you in the acknowledgments for the sequel.”
Chloe grinned, calling after her, “Go! Go get him, Emma.”
Emma ran into the crush of bodies, weaving past plastic swords, feathered wings, and kids in Spider-Man suits—clinging to her last impossible hope.
That she’d make it in time. That he’d still be there.
That it wasn’t too late to fix what she’d broken.
Chapter 45
Out of breath. Out of time. Out of hope? Jury’s still out.
The gate was packed when Emma reached it, lungs burning, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might splinter her ribs. She elbowed past a cluster of Ninja Turtles, scanning the crowd in jerky sweeps. Flight 213 to JFK. Boarding.
Darren was nowhere.
Panic blurred her vision. What if he was already on the plane? Should she text him that she was there? Beg a stranger to pass a message? Her brain spun through half-formed plans, none of them good.
She paced the edge of the line, her attention so scattered she almost tripped over someone’s suitcase.
Nothing.
Another lap around the gate. Every dark-haired man looked like him for half a second. Every British voice made her stiffen.
A traitorous thought pressed at the edges of her mind. She shoved it back, refusing to let it in—but it broke through, anyway.
The realization hit her in a single clean blow.
