‘And when was that? I say, standing, preparing to leave the house already. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I can’t just let her leave—that’s not how this story ends. I realise suddenly. It can’t be. Because when I think of her not being there, in Mo’s apartment right now, I feel physically ill. My feet start to carry me forward for a moment, stopping as a fist clenches round my heart. It.. . it hurts. Am I having a heart attack?
‘Will?’ Ella stands beside me, but I ignore her in order to take my pulse rate, running through my symptoms and indicators in my mind.
Could be dyspepsia?
A stomach ulcer?
A panic attack?
Fuck. No, I’m definitely in love.
If I’m the latest in a long line of fuck ups and ne’re do wells, there’s only one thing for it. I need a woman who can keep me in check—a woman who can call me out on my bullshit and be the push to my shove for the rest of my life. And that woman is her. The girl with the old fashioned name and the timeless curves. The woman with the patience of a saint.Because she’d have to be to put up with me.
My feet start to move again.
‘Will, where are you going?’ Ella calls after me. I stop and swing around to face her.
‘I have to see her. How long have I got?’
‘She flies out tonight.’
I take off like a shot.
I leave Keir in charge, who looks slightly terrified at the prospect of dealing with my family, with Andrews as his second in command. I don’t pack a bag, or even a toothbrush, but I do remember to stop by the safe in my childhood bedroom for something my mother gave to me the week before she died.Gave it to me, rather than allow my father to sell it.I grab my wallet and passport on my way to the car.
At the airport, I pay a ridiculous amount for a one way ticket to Heathrow, then bring up all the possible flights on my phone that Ella might take to the States today.
There are two flights that are the most likely, and only one I’ll make. So it has to be that one.Please.I call Mo, because she wouldn’t leave Sir Lancelot. She’s far too conscientious for that. Mo’s number goes to voicemail, so I leave a rambling message asking him to call me back with Kallie’s number. And by the time I’ve landed in Heathrow and made my way to the correct terminal, I’ve been asked by no less than six people if I’m a runaway groom.I should’ve taken five minutes to change.
I buy a first class ticket to Dulles at the airport itself, my travel visa still valid from a Vegas trip at the beginning of summer that I need to banish from my memory. Because a man on my mission isn’t interested in recollections of stripper poles.
‘The Right Honourable William Travers,’ says the uniformed drone at the check in desk. He looks me up and down from over his counter like he’s not sure the name fits.
‘Actually, it’s Lord Travers as of last week.’
‘Come again?’ he says, looking at me quizzically.
‘Never mind. Right Honourable will do.’
‘No luggage today, Mr Travers?’
‘None.’ There’s little point arguing he could call me Doctor Travers, too.
‘No checked bags? No carry on?’
‘Just myself. And for the record, I’m not being chased by a woman in a long white dress and veil.’
Drone number whatever passes me my boarding card somewhat perplexed, though doesn’t forget to wish me a pleasant flight. I suddenly think it’ll be hard to do so if this all doesn’t go according to plan.
Business and first and steerage all have separate boarding areas, so I don’t see Sadie as the flight is called, or as I make my way onboard.
I don’t take my seat, instead walking through the cabin, scanning the sections for Sadie, my heart beating like a drum, fearing what I might find.Or not, as the case may be.
My heart begins to sink as I get to the back of the plane without finding her. But then, in the very last row, I see her. I think my heart stops.
Her butterscotch hair is piled on top of her head, her nose ignoring everything around in favour of a book. As I draw closer, I realise it isn’t a book she’s reading, but the emergency instructions leaflet.
She hates heights. Maybe she also hates flying.
