Page 66 of Broken Rules
What if none of this was real? What if it was just a giant delusion brought on by grief and heartache? What if the sail boat wasn’t a signal from Damien, and instead the owner simply appreciated 80s movies? And what if Catherine Earnshaw wasn’t Damien’s code for Savannah Honey, but a humorous joke from one bibliophile to another? That would mean her Max really belonged to someone else, who was now stranded at the airport.
Her mind raced as the airport streaked past in a blur. Keeping her eyes trained on Max’s broad back, she fought the urge to turn around and buy a ticket for the next flight to Boston.
After all, Nonna had told her never to give up on love.
And so, she would stay her course, sailing on the waters of chance for even the hope of finding Damien at the finish line.
Palm trees had replaced the pine trees she was accustomed to seeing outside the car window as Max steered the black Lincoln town car onto a coastal road. She rolled the window down when tall masts and billowing sails came into view.
Her chest tightened. She held her breath.
And then she saw it—Working Girl. It had to be Damien!
The car stopped. Without thinking and still without breathing, she flung the car door open, jumped out, and raced toward the boat. Her feet thundered up the metal gangplank and onto the deck. Her gaze darted everywhere, but he wasn’t there. Tears stung her eyes. Desperation gripped her heart. “Damien,” she called out, spinning in a circle. “Damien!”
A hand flattened over her mouth from behind. She thrashed against the arms holding her.
“Savannah, it’s me.”
She froze. His hand fell away. She turned and met his amber gaze.
“Damien,” she cried.
His face broke into a smile, but he pressed a finger to her lips. “We’re alone for now, but stop yelling my name. The crew thinks my name is Henry.”
She threw her arms around his neck. “I don’t care what your name is. I only care that you’re here.” Her voice broke. “That you’re alive.”
“I’m here,” he crooned softly in her ear. “Everything is going to be all right.”
“Savannah!”
She jerked away from Damien, looking for who had called her name.
And then she saw him—Skeevie Stevie, a.k.a. Detective Hastings was running toward them. Her heart sank.
The FBI had followed her.
