Page 44 of Falling for Grace

Paparazzi.

Somehow they know he will be arriving and are swarming around the airport. Waiting to get a picture of him.

So much for being respectful and giving him space.

Bastards.

Ted told me the arrangement they have for when he has to pick Brandon up. Ted doesn’t go into the terminal; instead, Brandon heads to the Departure drop-off section, and if Ted gets moved on, he goes around the block and grabs him the next time around.

So that’s my plan.

Three years is a long time not to see someone. I mean in person, because I saw him everywhere. Magazines, films, papers, talk shows, my mind's eye.

I sit biting my nails and watch as loved ones are dropped off, suitcases unloaded, hugs and kisses are exchanged as people head off on their journey.

People-watching. I love people-watching.

I’m so focused on watching the car in front of me unload that I jump when the boot opens and Brandon throws his suitcase in. I didn’t consider that Brandon could come from the terminal behind me. I turn around but the boot is already closing, and he is now walking exceptionally quickly to the passenger door, throwing it open before ducking forward.

“Drive. They’re right behind me.”

But I don’t drive.

Because he doesn’t realise it’s me and I’m frozen.

“Dad?” he says, and turns to me. And he hasn’t seen or heard from me in a little over three years—well, apart from the shitstorm of two weeks ago. I can sense the moment he realises it’s not his father because his whole demeanor changes.

He freezes, just like I have.

I mean, he was tense before, but his whole body tenses, and I can hear the sharp intake of breath. But still I just sit here, my hands on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, and I stare at his face.

His beautiful face.

His eyes are shielded by dark aviator sunglasses.

“Gracie,” he whispers.

He sits up, alert, yanking the glasses from his face. His eyes look bloodshot and tired. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He throws his Ray Bans into the tray that sits between us.

Okay, ouch.

I baulk at his reaction, my whole body jerking in response to his words.

Do not cry, do not cry, but pain grips my chest in an iron vice.

“No, Jesus, I didn’t mean it like that! It’s just that…” He looks forward and winces as paparazzi surround the doors outside the airport trying to locate him. “You shouldn’t have come. You don’t need this.” He reaches over the centre console and grabs my hand. I’m rendered entirely speechless.

Which doesn’t happen often.

I can’t reply to his words, because I’m in shock that Brandon is sitting here, looking just the same as he always did, only older and stronger, and if it’s at all humanly possible…

…hotter.

With his other hand, he reaches over and cups my cheek, wiping the tears away. His grip tightens, and he pulls me to him roughly. I don’t have a choice but to go to him. Doesn’t he realise I would have done so willingly? No coaxing or force was needed. I’m practically pulled into his lap, but the centre console stops me. I hold onto him tightly, like he is now my anchor, and he grips me back. He kisses my cheeks, and he kisses my forehead and I cry.

Because I know he is hurting as much as me.

And I know he wants to know why just as much as I do, if not more.

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