But I'm aware of every breath he takes, every small movement. And when his knee bumps mine as he shifts in hissleep an hour later—because apparently he can sleep while I'm wide awake, spiraling—I don't move away.
Hours later, I'm watching the sunrise through the window, my notebook open in my lap, when Grant stirs beside me. His eyes open slowly, and for a moment, he looks disoriented. Then his gaze finds mine, and something passes between us.
Recognition. Awareness. Want, maybe?
"Morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning."
The flight attendants come through with coffee and blueberry muffins, the cabin slowly coming back to life around us. The pilot's voice crackles through the speakers informing us we'll be landing in the next forty-five minutes.
It's almost over. This strange, suspended bubble where I've spent hours talking to Grant Cross like a person, not my father’s best friend, but just... a man. A fascinating, intelligent, ridiculously attractive man who looked at me in the darkness like I was something special.
This has to end. Has to go back to normal once we touch down.
"Do you have a hotel?" Grant asks after we've landed and we're taxiing toward the gate.
"A hostel, actually. Near Santa Croce."
He makes a face. "A hostel, huh?"
"It's supposed to be pretty clean and it's cheap. I don't need much. I'll barely be there."
Grant pulls out his phone, tapping something quickly. "I'm at the Portrait. It's along the river, near Ponte Vecchio."
I've looked at the Portrait's website. It's the kind of place with marble bathrooms and a Michelin-starred restaurant and nightly room rates that cost more than my entire trip.
"Different tax brackets," I say lightly.
"Emma—"
"I'm fine, Grant. Really." I stand, pulling down my bag from the overhead compartment before he can offer to help. "I'll get a cab from the airport. You should?—"
"Ride into the city with me."
I freeze, my bag halfway down. "What?"
Grant is standing now too, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Share a car into the city with me. I have a driver meeting me. There's no reason for you to wait for a cab."
It's a practical suggestion. Logical. The kind of thing a family friend would offer.
Except there's nothing practical about the way my stomach somersaults at the suggestion, at the thought of prolonging this, of not saying goodbye just yet.
"I don't want to put you out."
"Santa Croce is ten minutes from the Portrait." His voice drops lower. "Let me give you a ride, Emma. Please. Your father would kill me if I didn’t."
I should say no. Should create distance, reestablish boundaries, remember exactly who we are to each other.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Okay. Thanks."
Grant's smile is slow and devastating. "Good."
We move through customs on autopilot, and I'm aware of him beside me, of the way people's gazes catch on him and hold. He has that kind of presence—command and confidence wrapped in an expensive leather jacket.
A man in a crisp suit holds a sign with his name. His driver.
This is his world. Seamless, luxurious, effortless.
