Page 86 of One Night in Glasgow
He gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I respect that,” he said. “Alright. We do it your way. But Gianni is on standby. The moment you give the word, I will unleash the digital kraken on this man’s life. You just say when.” He raised his glass. “To confronting bastards head-on.”
We all clinked glasses, a small, determined war council in the heart of Manhattan.
Just as lunch was wrapping up, my phone buzzed with an alert from the airline app. I glanced at it, my expression souring.
“Shit,” I muttered, showing the screen to Beth. “Our flight’s been canceled.”
Her face fell. “What? But why?”
“‘Unexpected mechanical issues’,” I read aloud. “Our flight to London, with the connection to Glasgow. It’s supposed to leave in five hours, but it’s been grounded.”
A wave of frustration washed over me. Getting another transatlantic flight on such short notice would be a logistical nightmare. All our momentum, all our carefully laid plans, were about to evaporate.
Fury, however, looked completely unfazed. He simply caught Jules’s eye. “That’s inconvenient.” He took a sip of his espresso. “Jules, handle it.”
The instruction was simple, direct, and laden with the unspoken understanding of what needed to be done. It wasn’t a display of power; it was a practical solution to a family problem.
“Execu-Jet?” Jules asked, already pulling up a number on her phone as she stepped away from the table.
“Whoever has a G650 or equivalent available at Teterboro,” Fury said, his attention already turning back to us. “I want them in the air tonight. Direct to Glasgow.” He looked at me, a wry grin on his face. “One of the few perks of being obscenely wealthy is that you can treat a commercial airline cancellation as a minor scheduling annoyance.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. It was true. We’d grown up with this level of access. While I wasn’t in Fury’s “buy-a-skyscraper” league, a private jet wasn’t a foreign concept. It was just a damn effective tool, and I was grateful he was deploying it.
A few minutes later, Jules returned to the table, a small, satisfied smile on her face.
“The Gulfstream is confirmed,” she announced. “Fueled, catered, and ready for you on the tarmac at Teterboro in three hours. I’ve forwarded the tail number and hangar details to your driver.”
Beth just looked at me, her eyes wide with a quiet astonishment not at the luxury, but at the sheer, loyal efficiency of it all.
“Problem solved,” Fury said simply, taking another sip of his espresso. “Now, about this Stewart character…”
Three hours later,a black car dropped us at a private hangar at Teterboro Airport. The sleek, white form of the Gulfstream sat waiting on the tarmac, looking less like a plane and more like a beautiful, winged projectile aimed directly at our problems. The overwhelming feeling wasn’t one of awe at the luxury, but one of profound gratitude for the support.
As we stepped onto the tarmac, the wind whipping a strand of Beth's fiery hair across her face, I reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear. She gave me a small, nervous smile. I couldn't resist. I pulled her into my arms, right there on the windy tarmac under the wing of the jet, and gave her a quick, hard kiss.
"What was that for?" she asked, her eyes sparkling when I pulled back.
"For luck," I said, grinning. "And because I can't keep my hands off you."
The quiet efficiency of the cabin crew greeted us as we boarded. We settled together on a plush leather sofa that ran along one side of the cabin. A flight attendant appeared, offering champagne, which we both happily accepted.
As the jet began its powerful, seamless ascent into the night sky, Beth leaned her head on my shoulder, her fingers lacing through mine. The city lights of New York dwindled below us, a glittering carpet of a life she was leaving behind for this fight.
"You okay?" I murmured, turning to press a kiss to her hair.
"Terrified," she admitted softly. "But it's different this time. I'm not walking in there alone." She lifted her head, her blue eyes searching mine. "I have you."
"You always have me," I promised, and sealed it with another kiss, slower this time, deeper. It was a kiss that certified, that no matter what awaited us in Glasgow, we would face it together.
I raised my glass to her in a silent toast. She returned the gesture, a small, wry smile playing on her lips.
“You’re not nervous confronting your parents, are you?” I asked, my voice carrying easily in the quiet cabin.
She took a slow sip of champagne, her blue eyes sparklingwith a familiar, dangerous mischief over the rim of the glass. “Not for me,” she said, her Scottish lilt full of dry humor. “I’m used to them.” She set her glass down, her gaze never leaving mine. “You, on the other hand, are about to walk into the dragons’ den, McCrae. Just a friendly warning: my mother doesn’t negotiate. She annihilates. Try not to cry.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BETH
