Page 44 of Leon

"Go ahead and enjoy the meal," he suggested with a wave of one hand as he bent over his laptop.

She had tried, wondering if the svelte-looking blonde stewardess had served more than drinks and incredibly tasty canapés and champagne to her husband in the past. The woman looked much too familiar when she dealt with him. And he had not introduced her as his wife—had simply said her name and that's it. Fromall appearances, she was someone hooking a ride on his jet. A perfect stranger.

She tried to brush off the creeping suspicion, but the seed had been planted, worming its way into her thoughts and dampening her excitement. The luxurious surroundings felt suddenly cold, the dazzling city lights far below mere pinpricks of distant warmth. She glanced at him, absorbed in his work, his brow furrowed in concentration and the light from his laptop casting sharp shadows across his face. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he was aware of her discomfort—or even her presence, beyond a vague smile and the occasional distracted murmur.

She paced silently to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The endless cloudscape offered no answers. A flicker of laughter from the cabin drew her gaze: the stewardess, gliding past with a linen napkin and an easy, practiced smile, eyes flicking to her husband, lingering a heartbeat longer than courtesy demanded.

For a moment, she warred with herself. Was she being ridiculous? Jealousy was a poison, she knew; it twisted the mind, made monsters from shadows. Still, her fingers curled around the armrest as the faintest ache throbbed in her chest.

She returned to her seat at the elegantly set table, feigning interest in the gourmet meal presented before her. The flavors, no doubt exquisite, seemed bland and distant. She caught herself glancing at him, searching for any sign—a glance, a word, a gesture—that would reassure her. But he remained hunched at the desk, lost in spreadsheets, unreachable.

Time dragged. The hum of the engines and the cocoon of opulence did little to soothe her troubled thoughts. She found herself longing for the simplicity of their own bed, the warmth of his arms. Here, thousands of feet above the world, she felt strangely adrift, a guest in a stranger's life.

When at last he closed his laptop and stretched, she watched the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze never quite met hers. She wondered if he noticed how far apart they had drifted, even as they traveled together through the clouds.

He did not go to her. Oh, he would have loved to just swoop her into his arms and make use of that big bed, simply lock out the curious eyes and lose himself in her, but something was blocking him. He wanted her. So much that it was like needlepoints poking at him. He had just stopped himself from hauling her into his arms. The chic rose-pink pantsuit she had chosen to wear for the trip did something wonderful to her flawless skin. Her hair—the glorious abundance of it—was loose and down her back. Her lips were coated with the same shade of lipstick asher suit, and her magnificent eyes glowed with excitement and wonder. She had seen the way she stared as she came aboard, and he wanted to share the excitement with her.

Something was holding him back. It was as if he was bracing for the goodbye he felt coming. He loved her—God knows he does. So much that it felt like a fire burning a hole inside him. He had never known that something this potent, this intense existed. He never dreamed that he could be so consumed by another human being. She took over his thoughts; his mind was filled with her. He ached in places he had never ached before. Just a look at her had him feeling vulnerable, raw, and exposed. He would wake up in a cold sweat and reach for her, and she was not there. Then he would spend the rest of the night shivering from the loneliness. He could not go on like this for much longer. If she was not willing to come out and acknowledge their union, he was going to have to sever the tie. And that—that was what was making him so edgy and overburdened. That was what was stopping him from going to her.

Instead of joining her in the plush seats she had chosen, he pushed back his chair and pretended exhaustion.

"I suggest you try to close your eyes for a few minutes." His voice was unusually cool and formal, and he did not even glance at her.

Pride had her stiffening her spine. She was determined not to humiliate herself by begging for an explanation.

"Good idea." Her voice was like ice that glided over his skin and sent a shiver through his body.

The voice screamed at him that he was wasting precious time not being with her. That he was making the situation worse than it should have been. But he could not move. Something anchored him, not just physically, but emotionally as well, and he stayed where he was. Time enough to mend bridges when they got to their destination. Closing his eyes, he settled in, and it wasn't long before emotional exhaustion took over and he slept.

*****

It had a cute and adorable name. Plockton was a tiny fishing village. She had read the pamphlets. And very picturesque. It also had a serenity to it that soothed her ragged nerves. The ride from the airfield had her glued to the window, her eyes wide as she took in the tiny, whitewashed houses—gardens ablaze with colors that hurt the eyes.

She pressed her forehead against the glass, letting the coolness ground her as the landscape slipped by—emerald hills tumbling toward the sparkling loch, sunlight glinting on the water in fractured shards. It was so quiet here, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the car and the distant call of gulls. She wondered if this peace could seep into her bones, smooth over the cracks that had formed—not just between them, but inside herself.

The driver pointed out the harbor as they rounded a bend, his accent warm and lilting. She managed to smile, murmured something polite, but her thoughts were far away. She wanted to believe that the simple charm of Plockton, with its boats bobbing gently and its winding shoreline, could heal them. That here, away from the hurried press of city life and the unspoken words that choked their every conversation, they might remember how to reach for each other again.

As they passed a cluster of schoolchildren waving wildly, she found herself smiling despite everything. Hope, fragile and stubborn, fluttered in her chest. Perhaps in this gentle village, amidst the scent of salt and blooming rhododendrons, they could shed their pride and finally speak the truths that had haunted their journey.

"Oh!" Her hand flew to her chest as they rounded the bend and the house appeared.

"You said it was a cottage." She turned to her husband, eyes glowing. He had to smile. Her exquisite face was alive, the sadness that had been there all but gone. He reached for her hand, just as the driver came to a stop at the front of the very pretty structure.

"It's called that." He drew her out as soon as the door was opened. He linked his fingers with hers and waited with her until she gazed around the lush green landscape, the pretty flowers growing everywhere, vines climbing the weathered walls, and an arbor almost entirely covered with trellises. She barely noticed that the driver had taken their luggage and the car had left. The air was balmy, the breeze stirring the trees. The scent of pine and sweet air wafted over them. Her fingers tightened on his, and she could almost pretend that this was home—that they could get over the hurdles.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The hush around them was thick, punctuated only by the chirr of distant insects and the occasional soft sigh of wind through the pines. She let her gaze wander across the cottage's stone path, where moss grew in the crevices, and the riot of wildflowers painted exuberant strokes of color beneath the low afternoon sun. Here, the world felt suspended, as though time had slowed just for them.

He squeezed her hand gently, anchoring her as much as himself. "It's beautiful," she murmured, her voice soft with wonder and disbelief. The anger and anxiety from days past seemed to wane, replaced by something quieter, more uncertain. She felt the old ache in her chest lessen, just a little.

Inside, the cottage was all beams and honeyed wood, dappled light slanting through lace curtains. The air held a faint trace of peat and lavender. She ran her fingers along the rough-hewn table, the chipped blue enamel kettle, the row of mismatched mugs on a shelf. There was history here, layers of memory woven into the walls, and she yearned to step inside their comfort.

He set their bag by the door, watching her with a cautious hope that made her heart twist. "We can eat if you like," he said, voice low and careful. She nodded, not trusting herself to answer. Instead, she crossed to the window and looked out: a pair of swans glided across the water, their reflection rippling in perfect symmetry. Behind her, she heard the quiet click of the door closing.

"I'd like that," she whispered, more to the cottage than to him. She felt him move closer, his presence warmer than she remembered, and let herself believe—if only for a heartbeat—that this place might be the beginning of forgiveness.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she leaned back, closing her eyes. It had been so long since he had touched her. So long since she had felt this closeness between them. Tears burned the back of her eyes, clogged her throat, and had her sighing raggedly.

He turned her to face him, with one hand cupping her face. Whatever they were going through, he had decided to leave it as soon as he stepped off the plane. Brushing tendrils of hair from her face, he lowered his mouth to hers. Capturing her sigh, he brushed his lips against hers, slowly, potently, drawing in her breath, inhaling her scent.

---