Page 120 of Take Hold of Me

Emilie

Iretrievemy passport and make my way toward baggage claim. My heart has not stopped racing since the captain told us to brace for impact. I say another prayer of thanks for her skill in landing the plane.

A man in an airline uniform approaches me. “Miss Dubois, please follow me. I will get you to your driver with minimal interruptions.”

I am numb. I nod and follow him into a maze of backrooms, where I point out my luggage they were able to retrieve from the fallen plane. When I tell him I parked my own car in the lot, he leads me to a private waiting room and takes my keys. “I’ll be back with your car in a jiffy. Please wait here.”

Swallowing over my distress, I sit. The last few panicked hours replay in my head. The fearful screams. The hard landing. The rush to disembark, followed by the police getting all of our statements. Thankfully, no one died in the crash. But, several passengers were taken to the hospital for broken bones, scrapes and bruises. I am lucky—I bear no physical reminders of the engine failure.

Emotionally. Different story.

Things could have turned out much worse, and I am deeply grateful for my second chance. Maybeheheard about the crash and came to the airport to check on me? Maybeheis waiting on the other side of this wall?

If this episode taught me anything, it is that I want his strong arms around me again. If Wills is not here, I am going to find him.

With that decision made, I make calls to my parents and the Agency to let them know I am safe. As I disconnect from the latter call, the airline rep returns to the room. “Your car is out front, Miss Dubois. Please follow me. The paparazzi haven’t been tipped off.”

“Merci.” We leave the waiting room and I scan the sea of faces. None of them are familiar. Tamping down my disappointment, I take my keys and head toward home.

Turning onto my street. I am greeted by a huge number of trucks. When I approach my driveway, the paparazzi rush my car. Gripping the steering wheel, I inch forward, unable to make out their shouted questions.

Stopping, I lower my window but they are all shouting over each other. I raise my hand and point at a man I have seen many times before. He says, “Is it true? Were you on the plane that crashed? Are you injured?”

I take a deep breath. “Oui. I was on the airplane but am unharmed. All I need is to get inside my home and have some peace and quiet to process what happened and appreciate my life. Please, forgive my being short, but I have been through an ordeal today and feel for the people who have not been as fortunate as I have been.” I also need to speak to a certain former bodyguard, but I am not sharing that tidbit with them.

A chorus of “good to have you back with us” greet me, then blinding flashbulbs. Rolling up my window, I hit the button for the gate to open. A security measure Wills insisted I install.Wills.

Passing the paparazzi, I pull into the driveway. When I see his Jeep in my carport, I nearly catapult out of my car. Not bothering to navigate into the garage, I enter the house through the side door. Butterflies flit all around my stomach, keeping my mouth shut. It is as if I willed him to be here.

I make my way through all the rooms, ignoring the television that is showing the plane crash on a loop. He is not in the house. Where else could he be? My eyes zero in on the French doors to the patio, slightly ajar. Once I get outside, I stop. Wills is in a lounger, asleep.

On silent feet, I walk forward, never taking my eyes away from him. Even in slumber, he grips a piece of cloth. Coming closer, I realize he is holding my t-shirt. My hand flies to my mouth. A couple of steps from him, I study his body, ending at his face. His cheeks have tear streaks on them. He. Was. Crying.

Crying.

I stifle a gasp and close the gap between us. I want to wake him, but daunting memories of the last time I did so resurface. Yet, his body is still and he does not appear to be having a nightmare. I hold my breath and reach out, my hands landing on his shoulders.

He stirs.

Please do not lash out. In what I hope to be a calm and comforting tone, I murmur, “Wills?”

His eyes flutter open. His mouth opens and closes. A whispered, “Ems?” reaches my ears.

My hands slide down to his, which I grip as if they were a lifeline. His strong fingers close around mine. I nod. “Wills, I am here.”

“Are you real? Or are you actually an angel come down from heaven?”

I smile. “Oui. I’m real.”

His arms drag me into his lap, crushing me to his chest. “Oh my God, oh my God. You’re alive. You didn’t die.”

“I am here.” He squeezes my last breath out of me, but I do not care. He crushes me to his body like I am the most precious thing in his world.

I push back and draw in a breath, tracing the tracks of his tears with my finger. Bringing it to my lips, I say softly, “Oh, Wills. I am okay.”

“I couldn’t survive without you, Ems. I love you so much.”

My heart flips to hear his words. We still have more to discuss, but this is all that matters now. “Oh, Wills. I love you, too. Forever.”

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