Page 11

Nobody looks at me.

Nobody sees me.

And for the first time all night, I wonder if I ever even made it to the airport at all.

But the gate number blinks in front of me, sharp and certain, and the boarding announcement cuts through the static with my flight number, my destination.

I keep walking.

Because if I stop now—if I turn around—I know, somehow, that the whole world might collapse in on itself.

And I’m not ready for that.

We touch down in New York with a thud, and the jolt shakes something loose in my chest. A breath. A sob. A flicker of hope? I don’t know.

I check my phone.

Dad: Someone will be waiting when you land.

I assume a driver. Some stiff in a suit holding a sign with my last name and an umbrella bigger than my emotional baggage.

I assume wrong.

I step through the terminal and freeze.

Kingston.

All six-foot-five inches of my high school heartbreak. Green eyes that still see right through me. Dark hair that makes me want to run my fingers through it even though I shouldn’t.

My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grins, and it’s unfair how good he looks. NFL muscles in a hoodie. Tattoos peeking out from under sleeves I suddenly want to roll up with my teeth. Dangerous.

“Mya,” he drawls, like my name is a song he forgot he loved. “Nice flight?”

“I—what are you—why are you here?”

He lifts a shoulder, lazy and charming. “Coming to your rescue. Your dad called in a favor. Said you needed a place to crash for a bit.”

I blink.

He smirks. “Don’t look so shocked. I do favors. Occasionally.”

“Where are we going?”

“My place. For now.”

I swallow. Hard.

“Your penthouse?” I croak.

“That’s the one.”

Jesus. Of course it is. Of course I’m staying with the boy who broke my heart and still owns a piece of it, even if he doesn’t know.

He nods toward the doors. “Come on, Mya. You look like you could use some quiet.”

Quiet.