Page 84 of Sebastian.

My legs had hit the back of that darn desk, and the world came crashing down. My brain had stuttered to a stop when Johan hovered over me, his height suddenly going from frustrating to irresistibly attractive. We were so close that there were only inches between our bodies, and his breath brushed my face as he leaned down, tilting his head just so as his hand came up to cup my jaw….

That's precisely when Oma Margaret chose to make her grand entrance. Talk about impeccable timing. I slam the door on the memory, not wanting to relive that humiliation all over again. It was that moment that’s got me caught up in running weird errands for Oma, but I guess it could be worse. At least she didn’t tell my parents.

* * *

At the airport, I board the jet Pops’s PA so candidly booked for me and settle into one of the leather seats. In minutes, and with nothing else to do to pass time, I find myself lost in the digital abyss of my phone's photo gallery. My fingers glide across the screen, taking me back in time to that wedding—the day when my whole world seemed to be spinning faster than ever before.

The selfies with Johan, taken during our secret exploration of Oma’s office, bring a playful smile to my lips. Those mischievous, stolen minutes were the highlight of the event. But my curiosity veers toward a peculiar image among the bunch—a photograph I snuck of my grandmother's desk.

In that unexpected moment of voyeurism, I realize that on the desk lies a series of printed photographs featuring a mysterious woman, probably in her mid-sixties. They are candid shots, as though taken by a sneaky paparazzo or a cunning private investigator. This enigmatic woman is walking the streets of a quaint little town, unaware that she was the subject of covert surveillance. My interest deepens immediately on seeing the pictures, but that isn’t all.

Beside these images is an unassuming envelope, labeled with a simple “Amelia, 8/22.”

Margaret, my ever-elusive grandmother, has stubbornly refused to divulge any information about the woman featured in those photos. Despite my relentless inquiries, all I’ve received in return is silence. And so, here I am, with a mission laid out before me—to visit an address where I might find this enigmatic Amelia and deliver the message that Margaret Van Dieren is looking for her.

While the plane soars through the sky, I wonder what awaits me on this trip. I have an idea of what I would like it to lead to, and it has a lot less to do with Amelia, and a lot more to do with Johan. It’s this thought that lulls me into a short sleep, allowing the time in the air to pass in a mere instant.

Once the private jet touches down in Birmingham and the engines whir down, I gather my belongings and prepare to disembark. A surge of excitement courses through me—not for the cryptic visit with Amelia, but for everything that comes after that.

As I step out onto the tarmac, my eyes instantly scan the area until they land on Johan himself standing with the chauffeur Oma sent. The sight of him sends a jolt of surprise through me; after all, he wasn’t supposed to be here! Yet, here he stands, looking tall and confident, and wearing that effortlessly charming smile that I love so much. My heart flutters in response which is beyond ridiculous. Gosh. How pathetic.

I approach him, hefting my backpack over my shoulder, and trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. “I thought we were supposed to meet later.”

He grins, his bright blue eyes twinkling at me. “Well, the chauffeur picked me up before heading here. Seems like your grandmother wanted you to have some company.”

My heart warms at the thought that Oma, in her own cryptic way, arranged for Johan to accompany me on this mysterious journey. Maybe she's not as heartless as she appears when it comes to my potential romance. Or maybe she just knows how much I value his presence.

Opening the rear door for me, Johan then steps aside and extends a hand to help me get in, while saying with a posh accent, “Welcome to England, Ms. Hannah.”

Chuckling at his behavior, I can’t help but shake my head, and get inside the car in one swift movement. He closes the door behind me and then gets in from the other side, sitting beside me. The chauffeur greets me and I take a second to realize that he’s sitting on the left where the steering wheel is.

With Johan by my side, the upcoming adventure seems a little less daunting. I offer him a grateful smile when the car starts moving, silently acknowledging that this journey just became a tad more bearable.

“Did your grandmother tell you where we are heading?” Johan asks, breaking our comfortable silence.

I take a moment, thinking about the answer. “Um, to some old town called Stratford-something…?”

Upon hearing me, Johan’s face brightens up with a chuckle. “Stratford-upon-Avon, you mean?”

His mocking voice causes me to smack his arm in annoyance, which makes him laugh even more.

“Stop making fun of me,” I tell him despite being just as humored. “It’s my first time in England. I don’t know the name by heart.”

“Don’t worry, I’m here to remind you.” He winks at me, his usual playfulness causing my lips to twist upwards into a smile. The truth is, I could go anywhere with Johan by my side; no matter how long the drive is, he’d always find a way to make it entertaining.

“Did you know it’s Shakespeare's birthplace?” he asks out of nowhere, his tone laced with palpable excitement.

I raise my eyebrows, quite surprised about it. “Really?”

“Yep, it’s a beautiful town. You’re gonna love it.”

An hour later, the driver announces that we’re finally arriving at our destination. I look out of the window, my eyes taking in the picturesque countryside, and the old town coming into view ahead of us, which feels like something out of a dream. The charming Stratford-upon-Avon town, with its cobblestone streets, pleasant canals, and quaint half-timbered houses, makes me wonder if I've stepped onto a movie set or into a storybook. It's like being in a time capsule where history speaks through every brick and cobblestone. The car turns left and right, and after passing through the town center, we continue a bit farther into the countryside, until we finally stop and park in front of an adorable cottage, surrounded with lush green gardens. I can't help but think it's the kind of place where they film those swoon-worthy period dramas. The ivy-draped walls and the thatched roof give it an air of authenticity that's positively enchanting.

Our chauffeur, the embodiment of professionalism, holds the car door open for me. Stepping onto the cobblestone path, I sneak a glance at Johan. Having him here adds a dash of excitement to this whole adventure, despite its peculiar nature. My heartbeat quickens slightly. Why does he have to be so cute?

Approaching the cottage door, I ring the bell, and after waiting just a few seconds, it creaks open to reveal a sweet elderly lady. She exudes warmth and kindness, quite the opposite of Oma Margaret.

“Erm, good afternoon. I’m looking for Amelia van Lynden. I came here on behalf of my grandmother, Margaret van Dieren. She’s looking for her.”

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