Page 117 of When Fate Breaks
“I’m so very sorry Mr. Coralton,” I say, flying to my feet, “but I have to go now–Crap.” My jaw unhinges as I realize what I have done.
When standing up abruptly from the table, my bag swung around on my shoulder and slammed straight into Margaret’s wine glass, sending the dark red liquid flinging directly into her lap.
My blood has gone ice cold. The words are caught in my throat. “Ms. Brooks, I–I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“Goodbye, Ms. Jacks.” Margaret’s gaze stabs me in the chest.
“It really was an accident. I didn’t–”
“You have somewhere to be,don’t you?” Margaret grits out, using her napkin to soak up the wine from her dress. Though the fabric is black and the wine only shows up as a slightly darker wet spot, that doesn’t help me feel any better.
“Yes, ma’am. I do,” I gulp. I turn to the wide-eyed Mr. Coralton. “It was very nice to meet you, sir. Thank you for everything.”
I think my heart falls into my stomach when he just clears his throat and nods in response.
I’m screwed.So unbelievably screwed.
I trudge out of the restaurant into the quickly darkening streets of New York City, swallowing against the lump in my throat and pushing away the thought that it was all for nothing.
I look up, seeing I’m on 33rd street. Considering my phone is dead, I’m very thankful for my somewhat photographic memory. Angelo’s is on 40th street. A girl around my age walks past me.
“Excuse me?” I say, turning to face her.
“Yeah?” she asks, pulling one side of her headphones away from her ear.
“I’m sorry, do you mind telling me the time?”
“Oh,” she says, her brows pulling together in confusion. “Sure, it’s, uh,” she glances down at her phone, “7:14.”
7:14?!
“Oh my God– I mean, uh. Thank you,” I mutter, turning away from the girl and breaking into a run down the sidewalk in the direction of 40th.
Seven blocks of running in heels later, my lungs and feet feel like they are about to break as I pull open the door of Angelo’s. I’m panting as I make my way inside, getting looks from the workers behind the counter and the customers filling nearly every table. Considering the place is so small, it only takes a few seconds for me to realize that Blake isn’t here. I push back through the door to outside, frantically looking around to see if he’s standing anywhere nearby.
“Shit,” I choke, feeling tears making their way to the surface. I place my hands on top of my head, taking several deep breaths with my eyes closed as I think.
The hotel.
He has to be at his hotel. When I open my eyes, I see a taxi approaching. I don’t even hesitate before I sprint forward and rip open the door, climbing inside.
“Whoa, Miss, you okay?” the driver asks, looking back at me in my frazzled state, practically hyperventilating in his backseat.
“Hotel,” I grunt.
“Uh…Miss. We got a few of those here,” the driver deadpans in his thick native New Yorker accent. “I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific.”
“Oh, it's the…”Shit. I can’t remember the name. I wrack my brain, visualizing my and Blake’s text messages over the last month and replaying our phone conversation from yesterday. He definitely didn’t say the name yesterday. “I think it starts with a W…”
“Miss, I’m gonna need a name or I’m gonna need you to get out.”
“...Westfield?…Windsen? Something like that?” I fist my hand in my hair, desperate to remember.
“Not ringing any bells. Sorry, Miss,” the driver says, pointing towards the door.
I sigh heavily, begrudgingly reaching for the handle, before I turn back to the driver in a final attempt. “It has New York City’s newest, biggest, and only garden terrace adjoining hotel suite.”
“Miss, I told you– Wait,” he pauses, my heart rate spiking. “Garden terrace adjoining…I heard something on the radio about…Would it be the Winfeld?”
