He's on a jet. Over the Atlantic. He texted me forty-five minutes ago from thirty-seven thousand feet. He is physically incapable of being at my door.
But the flicker doesn't listen to logic.
"Are you expecting someone?" Grace whispers.
"No."
"Is it him? Did he follow you home? Is this a rom-com thing?"
Apparently, the Coopers sisters think alike.
"That would be insane! He's still on a plane with his entire family!"
"Maybe he jumped out!"
"That's not how planes work!"
Grace’s eyes widen and whispers. “If that’s West, I’m emotionally unprepared.”
Then she scrambles to the window, peeking through the blinds.
Her entire body goes still.
"Jane."
"What?"
"You need to see this."
I join her at the window.
There's a gray sedan with a big red bow under the street lamp, parked at the curb.
A guy in a neon vest is walking back to a truck markedVEHICLE TRANSPORT.
"Oh my gosh," Grace breathes.
I open the door.
A second delivery driver. Clipboard.
"Jane Cooper?"
“Yes?”
"Got a vehicle delivery for you. Signature required."
“… I’m sorry?”
We follow him outside. Parked at the curb, gleaming under the streetlight like it was chosen by someone with a very specific definition of practical: a deep charcoal sedan. Doesn’t look brand-new, but it’s shiny and well-kept, all clean lines and quiet sturdiness.
Grace clutches my sleeve. “Jane, is this your pumpkin? Your pumpkin turned carrot—”
She shakes her head, like she’s aware of her mistake and clearing her head to search for the right word.
“Carriage.”
“That’s… that’s what I meant! I’m panicking.” She insists through her stutter.
