“I’ll have a water,” I confirm with an aggressive bobble to my head, but the flight attendant is no longer next to me. “Thank you. Water is good. Hydration is important, especially at high altitudes because the air is very dry and dehydration can cause headaches and fatigue, which might explain why some people get cranky on planes. Or maybe that’s just because the seats are too small and there’s no legroom and someone always reclines into your space?—”
Ding.
Thefasten your seatbeltsign lights up.
“Oh God,” I wheeze.
I dig my fingernails more deeply into the armrest as the plane accelerates down the runway, faster and faster, and then we’re lifting off, hurtling into the air, and my stomach is somewhere around my ankles while everything in me is screaming to get off, get off, get off?—
“So,” my seatmate says with the resignation of a man who has accepted his fate. “You mentioned writing thriller novels?”
Oh, bless him and his attempt at distraction. He’s a saint, and if not, I’ll saint him myself. I’m not religious though, so I’ll have to make something up.
I grab onto the safer topic of my career like a lifeline.
“Yes. Yup. I’m an author. Part of theABC Cluband everything. That’s not like the Mile High Club.” I slap a hand over my mouth. “Ugh.ABC, likeNew York Times,USA Today.” He stares at me blankly, so I move on. “I write small-town thrillers mostly, which is funny, because I live in a small town, but my town is more romcom than thriller. Except recently. I’m not sure I could write a romcom. I’m not very funny.”
He settles back into his seat, closes his laptop, and lets me talk.
Somewhere between describing Agnes with her glass eyeball and explaining why Moose showing up at three a.m. with food is actually a sign of acceptance, the flight attendant announces our decent into Charlotte.
Ninety minutes.
I did it.
My seatmate—whose name I never asked—flashes a weary but genuine smile as we taxi to the gate.
“I hope you find him,” he says.
I stare at him with wide eyes. “I never said I was looking for?—”
“Miss,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ve watched every romantic comedy known to man because they make my wife happy. Nobody gets on a plane as terrified as you and then talks for ninety minutes about everything except why they’re traveling if they’re not chasing after someone. I hope whoever he is, he’s worth it.”
His words conjure an image of Valen that has always resided in my mind and in my heart. The boy who protected me, the man who came back for me, the jerk who chose to break his own heart in a misguided attempt to save mine.
“He is,” I say. “He always has been.”
Roman gaveme the code to Valen’s penthouse.
He also called ahead and let the doorman know I was coming, so when I stumble into the lobby of Valen’s building—windblown, anxious, probably looking like a woman who’sone roller coaster away from barfing—the man behind the desk checks my ID, then gestures toward the private elevator.
“Penthouse,” he says. “Mr. Stone isn’t in, but Mr. Harrington said to let you up.”
My shoulders sag, but I thank him anyway.
Where could Valen be?
Food, I decide. He’s definitely out getting food. He hasn’t been home in months, and the man likes to eat. It’s the only acceptable explanation.
I punch in the code Roman gave me, then ride the elevator to the top floor. It opens up into Valen’s apartment.
And for the millionth time this week, I’m nearly bowled over by crushing pain.
I don’t even have to go any further to know this place is…empty.
Not just thehe’s not homeempty, but empty as inno life happens here.
If I called out for him, my voice would echo off the barren walls.
