Page 119
“Wait,” I tell him. “I need one more thing from you. A flight. Tonight. I need to get to New York.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s Christmas Eve, buddy. I’ve already got one plane and crew heading that way. I can’t create flights out of thin air. Get a commercial one.”
“That’s not soon enough.”
“For what?”
I press my hand against my forehead.
“For her.”
Caleb lets out another chuckle. “Theo,” he says slowly, “you had your chance. And you blew it spectacularly.”
“I know.”
The words scrape out of me so hard they hurt my throat. He’s right. This is my fault. He did nothing wrong. He simply took care of her the way I should have.
The way I didn’t.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “I’m such an idiot.”
“You finally figured it out?” he says.
“Yeah.” My grip tightens around the phone. “I figured it out.” I’m in love with her and she’s gone because I’m the prick who let her slip from my grasp.
He exhales.
“Christ. This is all very over the top for Christmas Eve. Go meet with your legal team and I’ll call you in an hour. I’ll sort you a fucking flight out.”
Relief punches through my chest. “Thank you.”
“But you owe me,” he adds before the line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly. There’s a knock at the door. I tip my head back, letting out a silent groan.
Because I just want to get out of here. Run from everything dragging me under. But I’m a Hunt. So I close my mouth and roll my shoulders, pushing out of Jess’ chair.
Then I stride across the room to welcome my legal team.
25
GEORGIA
The jet carrying me home touches down in Teterboro just before lunchtime. The New York sun shines through the window, the sky a brilliant blue despite it almost being Christmas. It looks so different to the gray clouds of England that made the take off so bumpy this morning.
“Miss Ingram,” Sara, the flight attendant says once she’s unfastened her belt and walked over to me. “There’s a driver waiting for you as soon as you’re through immigration. He’s ready to take you wherever you need him to.”
“It’s Georgia,” I remind her, because the two of us have bonded over the last eight hours. “And I hope he’s got a good book, he might be waiting for some time.” I’ve been through the immigration lines at the airport before. They’re not fun, even when you have TSA global entry. And let’s face it, Christmas Eve is probably one of the busiest days of the year here.
“Oh,” Sara laughs softly. “It’ll take you ten minutes at the most to get through the security in the private terminal. And he’s been told to take you wherever you want to go.” She touches my hand. “Good luck. And I hope you have a peaceful Christmas.”
The door opens a couple of minutes later and a rush of cold air sweeps into the cabin.
I follow Sara down the narrow steps, blinking against the brightness. A small terminal building sits a short distance away, and when I walk inside, a single customs officer is waiting behind a desk.
Sara’s right, of course. The process takes less than five minutes. This is how the rich live.
He checks my passport and slides it back across the counter. “Welcome home,” he says.
