“As soon as I’m well enough to get on one knee,” he says. “Or…I suppose if that isn’t happening anytime soon, then until I can’t stand waiting any longer.”
Thirty-six minutes later, as Tibby and I sit in the back of a town car on our way to the nearest private airport, my mom sends me a text from Alexander’s mobile:
Mom
I said yes!
And the image attached shows the ring on her finger, looking every bit as beautiful as I knew it would.
Chapter Sixteen
I’ve been booted from base camp.
You’ve been what?
She convinced them I was a threat, and I’m now persona non grata.
Inconvenient.
But not incapacitating. Are you settled?
Yes. Scoping out the crowd before noon.
They’ll be looking for you.
I’m not an idiot.
No, you’re not, unlike John. Text me the details when you have them. If there’s an opportunity, we need to take it.
Security will be a madhouse.
You nearly got her once. I believe in you.
Inspiring.
—Text messages between two prepaid mobiles, 12 February 2024, 9:47a.m.
As our plane flies overthe Scottish countryside, dreary and gray in the morning mist that’s slowly burning away, I curl up in my seat and stare at my three unread texts to Kit. Would Ibe violating his request for space if I sent another? Probably, but it’s taking every last thread of self-control I possess to resist, and I distract myself by running my fingers through Poppy’s soft fur as she snores in the armchair next to mine. She’s wearing a pink collar now with a gold name tag, a surprise gift from Rosie, and I click out of Kit’s text to send a thank-you note to her instead. That takes all of thirty seconds, and then I’m staring at my unread and unanswered texts to Kit again, my mood as dismal asever.
Is he with Astrid right now, prepping for the interview? I can picture the easy back-and-forth between them, the familiarity that feels more like casual friendship. Is she taking advantage of our so-called break? Is he? She’s exactly his type, based on allthe—
Wait.
Wait.
Holy shit.
I pick up my phone again, my thumbs flying, and within moments, I’m scrolling through one of theRegal Record’s photo galleries, which is full of pictures from Kit’s club outings before we met. And, more significantly, the girls he’s gone home with. While I hate myself already, the depressed part of me needs an answer, even though the rest of me knows it won’t help a damn thing. I click through the gallery, picture after picture of stunning beauties he’s slept with, until—
—a picture I’ve seen before, dated back to early autumn 2022, right after Kit moved to Windsor. She’s ducked behind Kit as they leave whatever club they met in, but I can see part of her nose, cheekbone, and one of her stunning hazel eyes, as well as her mane of chestnut hair flowing out behind her. It’s longerin the picture, nearly to her tailbone, but it’s still every bit as glossy as it was during our VidChat a week ago.
Astrid Clark.
I throw my phone back on the table like it’s bitten me, my eyes wide and my heart pounding. It’s one thing to know that these girls exist, or even to meet one, but to see her flirting with him—to see him flirting back right in front of me—
“I see you’re lurking in places you shouldn’t be.”
Tibby sits down in the armchair across from me and sets two fresh coffees onto the table. She sighs in agitation, which isn’t surprising, considering she’s spent the flight so far bickering with Doyle’s assistant, but all I can do is stare at her, my mind racing, unable to put anything into words for a good ten seconds. Tibby, of course, stares right back.
