Page 60 of BillionHeir
I straighten my back, drawing on all the strength I have.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” he says quietly.
The line of passengers in front of me blessedly starts to move and we disembark the plane. I wish that was where we were able to go our separate ways, but instead, we are stuck standing in line at customs. He awkwardly shoots me desperate glances as I try my best to avoid them.
We are eventually split into two lines, one for citizens of the UK and one for international travelers. I speak with a grumpy yet efficient woman who lets me through after a series of questions that seem unnecessary. When there is no sign of Maxwell on the other side, I breathe a sigh of relief. I am quite sure that his line was moving slower than mine, so I hustle to baggage claim with the hopes of grabbing my bag and getting a ride before I run into him again.
I jog up to the nearly empty carousel with energy I didn’t know I had left in me. I am just in time to see my purple suitcaserounding the corner. As I reach out to grab it, I sigh with relief that I still haven’t seen Maxwell.
“Let me,” Maxwell’s smooth voice says from behind me, extending his arm and grabbing my bag effortlessly off the conveyor belt before I can, gently setting it on the ground and extending the handle for me.
“Where is your mom?”
The airport is not all that busy right now, honestly. There are no real crowds for me to disappear into. Sure, there are people milling around as one does at an airport, but there is no way I am going to be able to give Maxwell the slip.
“I am sure she will be along any moment now.” I make a show out of getting out my phone and tapping the screen, pretending to text my mum as I try to order myself a car. Usually there is someone just around the corner, but this time it seems every car in the area is going a different direction. At this rate, who knows how long it will take before I can be picked up.
“I can take you anywhere you want. Really, it is no problem. My driver is waiting right outside.” He gestures to a large black SUV idling at a curb where I am certain it is not legal to park.
I look back at my phone where the rideshare app still shows a rotating loading icon and resign myself to my fate.
“Looks like she is caught in traffic,” I say without much conviction.
“Perfect,” Maxwell says with a look of victory on his face.
I think he knew that I invented the story about my mum coming to pick me up. I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment at being so transparent.
“I mean,” he says, trying to backpedal. “Not that it is perfect for your mother to be in traffic.”
“Of course,” I say, pulling my suitcase behind me as I walk toward the waiting car.
Maxwell takes hold of his small suitcase that he brought with him on the plane and follows closely behind. The driver hops out of the car when he sees us and quickly sets about loading our luggage into the boot as we settle into the backseat.
“Where can I take you, madam?” he asks from the front as we finally pull away from the curb.
I tell him the address of the hospital my mum is staying at here in London. The driver’s brows scrunch with concern, but he says nothing as he nods in confirmation.
I look over at Maxwell, worried that he is going to ask questions about where we are going. But if he has any, he doesn’t ask.
We ride along in silence for a while before Maxwell finally speaks.
“I am going to be here for a while. This is a bit awkward, since we have already gotten to know each other so well, but can I have your number?”
I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but in the time we have spent together since getting on the plane, there has been something different about Maxwell. The uncertain, pleading look on his face seems new, even to him. I have seen this man in all manner of moods, from unimaginable pain to overwhelming ecstasy, but this is something else entirely.
He is more vulnerable than I have ever seen him.
I consider his question a moment longer. We do know each other quite well. I mean, I have helped the man shower. But even more than that, we have slept together. It doesn’t get much more intimate than that, does it? The least I can do is give him my phone number. What could be the harm in that?
“It is a little strange that we don’t have each other’s number, isn’t it?” I ask.
He chuckles to himself as a look of relief comes over to his face. I am not that scary, am I?
He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me. I type my number into it and call myself. When a new number flashes across the screen of my own phone, I hang up.
“There,” I say, typing his name into my phone and saving his contact information even if I don’t have any intention of using it. As far as I am concerned, the time we spent together was rather special to me, but it is over now. He made that perfectly clear to me in Maine. I honestly don’t know why he is going to all this trouble for me.
