Page 25 of When We Meet Again

Regardless, I’ll know in this moment I was happy.

This is me. Beaming with excitement behind a darkened visor because of Roman Huxley.

Flyingon a private jet wasn’t on my bucket list, either, but it should have been. Roman helps me up the steps, not that I’m incapable, but because he’s such a gentleman. It’s a feature I’m not used to, so it would behoove me to point it out. How a woman his age hasn’t snatched him up yet, well—it’s mind-blowing.

I take in the plane’s luxurious interior. It’s well-lit with accent lighting. The chairs are white leather and almost as fluffy as my Lovesac. There are pillows and soft blankets everywhere.

I smile to myself. It’s obvious he’s paying attention to my comfort.

Glassware lines the back of the cabin, safely secured. The layout reminds me of a tiny home. I would one hundred percent live in a tiny home with Roman.

“Can I pour you a drink? It’s a long flight.” Roman walks behind a small, stocked bar toward the center of the plane. It’s lined with a dark oak with a golden trim.That can’t be real gold, can it?

This entire cabin looks like Joanna Gaines decorated it with luxe farmhouse décor. I’m obsessed.

“Please.” I offer him a smile. I feel like I’ve lived a completely different life lately. Like, from rags to riches…a little less on the rags part. A life I know I never would have had with Patrick.He never once offered to go anywhere with me on his family’s private jet. Even to the Philippines. I had to beg him just to fly commercial.

My eyes start to burn with the realization of how surface-deep my and Patrick’s relationship was.

Patrick never showed me this side of his life—the wealthy side. But why the hell not? Did he not find me worthy enough? Was he a complete waste of time? Did I really love him at all? There was never any spur-of-the-moment romantic times together. Mostly due to him claiming to be “not a romantic type of guy.” At the end of the day, I’m realizing that it was a cop-out.

Thoughts of Patrick are few and far between lately. And when they do squeeze their way into my brain, they aren’t thoughts of sadness. They make me think, like, really dive deep into the dynamics of our relationship. It dawns on me like the sun shining after a day’s worth of rain—I’m no longer grieving. Was every ounce of my grieving over him, or was most of it because I’ve become so lost as to who I am? Who am I on my own? Or maybe I’m just a complete psychopath having a conversation in my head with myself while I could be talking to Roman like a normal human.

Bringing myself back to the present, I run my hand along the edge of the bar. “This plane is stunning.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to tell my father you think so.” Roman smiles and hands me a glass of champagne.

“To the bucket list.” He holds up his flute

“Toourmemories,” I counter. It’s becoming athingbetween us, and I kind of love it.“I should have hadthison my bucket list. It’s so luxurious.”

I go to take a sip but pause with the glass to my lower lip as a flight attendant emerges from the cockpit. She’s gorgeous: short, dark hair, and long legs. I mean, my head is basically lined up with her hips, her legs are so long. Okay, that was dramatic, but still, to be that blessed with long legs…

“Mr. Huxley—” she says with a wide grin.

Roman cuts her off. “Emily, how many times have I told you not to call me Mr. Huxley. That’s my dad. You make me feellike a forty-year-old man who should have his shit together,” he jokes, but it stings.

“Sorry, Roman,” she giggles. She can’t be any older than he is. They exchange a few laughs while I try not to interrupt their moment together, while also trying to surreptitiously earwig on their conversation.

“How is your roommate? Is she still in the hospital?” Roman asks, genuinely curious.

“It was only gas! Can you imagine?” Emily rubs her hand over her soft cheek, turning a light shade of pink.

“I always knew she was full of hot air.” What a dad joke! Ha! If I didn’t know any better, I would think he’s the older brother. But his flawless face and the lack of wrinkles on his forehead say otherwise.

Emily laughs once more, touching Roman’s arm. But I watch him withdraw from her grasp before he walks toward me and rests his hands on the small of my back. “Emily, this is Waverly Kensington. Please make sure she gets whatever she needs. She’s the birthday girl.”

Emily turns to me and says shyly, “Happy Birthday, Miss Kensington.”

“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say. She hovers in front of me. I’m not sure if she’s waiting for me to say something else, but this is the most awkward introduction I’ve been a part of for some time.

“Oh!” Roman plucks the still full flute from my hand and places it on the bar next to his. “Let me show you around before we take off.” He grabs my hand, something he’s never done, but it’s like second nature. We maneuver through a small hallway, and he points left. “Bathroom. There’s another hallway on the other side which also contains a bathroom.” He tugs me along to another door leading to the back of the plane and he opens it.

“Bedroom.” Since we have a long flight and have to stop off at Dulles before we jump the pond. We’re going to need to sleep.” My mouth goes dry, and I don’t say anything.

“Don’t worry. There’s a pull-out couch in the main cabin. You can have the bed. Plus, we each have our own bathroom.”

“We have time before we sleep to work out logistics, Rome.” I push his shoulder, trying to make light of the situation. The next words slip out without rhyme or reason. “Where does Emily sleep?”

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