Page 13 of Holiday Hire

I force myself to reply, "Likewise," then step around him and make my way up the steps to the jet.

Don't turn around.

He's looking at me.

Don't give him the satisfaction.

I get safely inside the Cartwright's jet, barely hearing the attendant greet me, and sit in the luxurious, soft leather seat, peeking out the window.

Alexander wastes no time, jumping in his truck and taking off.

"Champagne? Something else?" the attendant asks.

I shake my head. "No, I'm okay. Thank you."

She disappears, and I'm in the air before I know it. My thoughts regarding Alexander, whether I should even return to the ranch, and my situation with Lance, are all over the place.

The pilot announces we're ten minutes from landing, tearing me out of my musings. I stare out the window until we land and then I exit the plane.

I walk across the runway, into the small building, and out the front door, expecting to see Lance and his car.

The road is empty. I pull my phone out of my purse, turn it on, and call him.

After two rings, his voicemail picks up.

I hang up and text him.

Me: Hey, I landed. Are you close by?

Several minutes pass.

I try to call again, but his voicemail comes on after three rings.

I hang up and return to text.

Me: Are you still picking me up?

I wait five minutes, call again, and get tossed into voicemail. Rage and hurt fill me.

I finally give up and order an Uber. I text him again.

Me: Can you at least confirm you're okay?

The car arrives, I get inside, and my phone dings.

Lance: Sorry. I forgot you were coming back tonight. It's best if you order a ride.

My insides shake. The journey back to my apartment is a blur as my emotions continue to spiral.

When I enter my place, I'm determined to be done with Lance. I open the closet door, pull out all the cardboard I stored over the last few weeks, and find my tape gun. I put the boxes together and spend hours packing my apartment.

I finish around three in the morning. Only my toiletries, several outfits to get me by over the next few days, and my bedding aren't boxed up. I text Lance.

Me: I took a temporary job in Texas. I'll be back in a few months. I think it's best if we take a break while I'm gone.

My phone rings. Lance's name and face pop up on the screen. I angrily answer, "Now you're going to call me?"

Voices and music blare in the background. I can barely hear him slur, "What do you mean you're going to Texas?"

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