Page 10 of At First Flight
“Yeah. Just a friend sending me a stupid article.”
“What’s it about?” I ask as the worker holds my card toward me.
“Sorry, but this card is declined. Do you have another form of payment?”
The words hit me like a slap I should’ve seen coming. My throat tightens as I stare at the screen behind the counter, blinking hard, like maybe if I give it a second, the numbers will change. That the error message will vanish. But it doesn’t. It’s there in big, bold letters.
Declined.
Fuck.
I knew,knew, this was a possibility. Prescott and his family don’t play fair. But I thought I’d have more time. Maybe a few days. Some sort of buffer. Something. It hasn’t even been eight hours since I walked out of that boutique and left behind the life I was supposed to be grateful for.
And now here I am. In a different country, in a boisterous airport hoping for some sort of relief, clutching a now-useless credit card like it’s a lifeline that’s snapped right in the middle.
“I—uh, hold on a second.” My voice trembles as I reach into my nearly empty wallet no bigger than my trusty passport I’d just received the day before, like there’s a magic card I forgot existed. But there’s nothing. Just my nearly empty checking card and a loyalty punch card for a bookstore back home.Buy ten, get one free.
I almost laugh. Almost.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of the woman behind the counter watching me, her expression kind but tight, like she’s seen this before. The look people give someone who’s unraveling quietly in public.
I mutter an apology and step aside, letting the next person in line move forward as I back away from the counter. My chest is tight, like there’s a vise around my ribs. My hands won’t stop shaking. And my heart, my idiot, impulsive, broken heart, is still trying to catch up.
This was supposed to be freedom.
When I booked the flight, I didn’t care where it went. Scotland popped up on the list like some romantic cliché, and I clicked before I could change my mind. My fingers trembled as I typed in my information, pressing submit while still in the Uber, the boutique in the rearview mirror, my reflection in the window looking like a ghost. I didn’t even look at the itinerary. I just… ran.
Now, the running has caught up with me.
I have no pounds. No working cards. No hotel reservation. No actual plan beyond escape. I don’t even have toothpaste.
What the hell was I thinking?
The panic creeps in, slow and sharp, like cold air filling a cracked window. I don’t cry. Not yet. But the tears are there, heavy and threatening, pressing behind my eyes like a dam that won’t hold much longer.
I left because staying felt like death by slow suffocation. But now I’m here and don’t know how to breathe. I’m alone in this country, this city in all its beauty, and even the air feels foreign.
What now?
What the hell do I do now?
Right now, I’m grounded, panicked, and broke. But I didn’t come here to fall apart. I came here to remember who Iwas before all of this. Before Prescott. Before the lies and the lace and the feeling of being trapped in someone else’s dream. I came here to figure out what freedom actually looks like. Even if it scares the hell out of me.
“I… I don’t—I’m—” My words trip over themselves, embarrassment heating my cheeks faster than I can form a coherent thought.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Here,” he says smoothly, sliding his card across the counter in exchange for mine, while simultaneously propping a small bag onto the counter with a recognizable mobile phone logo plastered on the front.
“No!” I protest, trying and failing to push his annoyingly solid arm back. “You don’t have to do that.”
His grip stays firm, steady. “I want to. We’re practically married, remember? What’s mine is yours.” His grin is all smug charm, and it sends a ripple through my already chaotic chest.
Before I can argue further, the worker lifts the card from Dean’s fingers with a small, amused smirk. “Oh, meal do naidheachd.”
I blink, startled by the unfamiliar phrase. My gaze swings to her face. “Wait—what?”
“It means congratulations in Scottish, sweetheart,” Dean explains as he swiftly wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me against his body. I gasp at the collision and the immediate sense of warmth that seeps through my clothes.
With a Southern drawl, Dean says, “Thank you, ma’am.” I swear I see a faint redness grow on her cheeks. At least I know I’m not the only one not immune to his good looks.
