Page 97 of Caribbean Crush

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Any flight. I’d like to book the next one out.”

Yeah, she definitely thinks I have a few screws loose. Her mouth flattens with disapproval as her long neon-green nails tip-tap on her keyboard. Then she pauses and looks up at me.

“Serbia. Leaves in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh . . .”

Now listen, would I hypothetically like to visit some lesser-traveled countries? Eventually, yes. Do I want to do it for my very first trip abroad? Eh ...

It’s probably best to enter at the shallow end.

“What’s the next one after that?”

Her nails clatter some more, and when she speaks again, it’s clear she’s utterly bored by this process. “London, Heathrow, direct. Leaves in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll take it.”

Her brown eyes widen. “You got your passport?” She’s skeptical as I hand it over.

“Thirty minutes won’t give you much time,” she warns.

Well then, you better tip-tap-type those talons a little faster, I want to say. Instead, I smile. “I’ll run.”

Her brow furrows, and I don’t miss the subtle shake of her head as she starts to book my ticket. The price is ... painful, to say the least. I squeeze my eyes closed against the barrage of negative thoughts.

You can’t afford this.

This is reckless!

Stupid!

Impulsive!

You have no place to stay! No one you know! What’s your plan?

“Credit card,” the lady says, waving her hand impatiently.

I blink my eyes open, conscious of the ever-growing line snaking into infinity behind me. Someone pointedly clears their throat. No one is patient in an airport; I get that. But, like, hello, some of us are making major life decisions here!

“Card,” she prods again, shifting her weight and no doubt fighting an eye roll.

“Okay, um ...” My hand shakes as I try and slip my card out of my wallet, stalling.

Then the line shifts to my left, and someone new steps up to the counter beside me. I catch a whiff of the person’s perfume, and I immediately freeze. The scent is so familiar; of course it is—my grandmother wore it every day of my entire life.

Chanel N°5.

I look up quickly, expecting to see my grandmother standing there beside me, an affectionate smile on her face, but it’s not her. It’s a stranger. This woman is older than my grandmother, shorter—oh, and alive. A laugh bubbles out of me.

It’s a sign, though, right? It has to be.

I grab my card and slide it across the counter. Then I hike my purse higher onto my shoulder and ask with a determined tone, “Which way is security?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

CASEY

I know I’ve made the right decision, and here are my two foolproof reasons:

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