Page 14 of At First Flight
“For what?” I whisper, my breath catching, uneven and aching.
“Waking me up. Enjoy your trip.”
He stares at me, eyes searching mine for a moment, before turning on his heel and joining the throngs of people.
“But how will I get this back to you?” I shout.
“Don’t worry about it,” he yells in return.
As he blends into the crowd, I watch and wait for him to return, only to end up disappointed. But this is what I want: a little peace and quiet to just be me. A chance to remember who I am and not who Prescott Hoolihan wanted me to be.
Unraveling my fingers, I find the black card with the name Dean J. Harrington embossed across the front. Any normal woman would feel relief at the thought of someone offering them a vacation at no expense, especially from someone as good-looking as Dean, but instead, I feel like nothing more than a charity case.
And I hate myself for it.
Reaching into the smaller plastic bag, I grab the pre-paid international phone Dean bought at the airport a few moments ago. I’d left my old phone in the boutique’s fitting room. Just another thing he had control over.
Thankful I knew my best friend Ashvi’s phone number by heart, I quickly type out a message letting her know I had landed and would let her know when I arrived at my hotel.
She’s the only person who knows why I ran this morning, and as my best friend, she swore she’d keep it a secret until I was ready to spill the beans. And she’s willing to keep my parents at bay. My poor mom must be freaking out.
Adding one more message to my mom, I let her know that I am safe and will explain everything when I’m ready. As expected, my phone begins ringing immediately, but I let it go to the voicemail box that I’ll figure out how to check later.
Right now, I have a decision to make. Do I stick with my plan of winging it for the next couple of weeks, or do I take the generous hand offered to me despite how it makes me feel? I know which choice Ashvi would make.
Harnessing whatever backbone I have left, I march my way toward the transportation area and find a waiting taxi.
“Where to?” the man with graying hair and gentle eyes asks as I slide across the back seat. He doesn’t speak with a strong Scottish accent like the woman in the store. He is more British than anything.
Digging into the plastic bag, I grab the business card and hand it to him.
“To this address, please.”
In the reflection of the rearview mirror, I watch his eyes bulge as he reads the card, and I’m left wondering where exactly Dean was booked to stay.
“Yes, miss.”
Soon, we’re out of the airport, and I stare out the window, taking in every little thing as we pass.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Definitely pleasure. It’s the first vacation I’ve taken in a long time.”
“Welcome! I hope you enjoy your time in our beautiful city.”
Glancing down at the overstuffed plastic bag at my feet, I tug Dean’s credit card from my pants pocket where I’d stuffed it earlier.
“Thanks. It’s already been one to remember.”
The eight-mile journey into Edinburgh stretches ahead, but I’m not in a rush. Outside the window, the rolling green hills blur into soft watercolor streaks, dotted with sheep and the occasional stone cottage, like something out of a dream I forgot I’d been chasing. And then, just as the anxiety I’ve been carrying eases its grip, the city unfolds before me in understated elegance. Old, alive with character. Georgian townhouses with wrought-iron balconies, sweeping neoclassical facades, and Victorian rooftops line the streets, their grandeur softened by age and stories untold. The steady rhythm of the car matches the calm that finally settles in my chest. For the first time in what feels like years, I can breathe, really breathe. And it’s not just oxygen. It’s possibility. It’s a flicker of something warm and weightless blooming deep in my chest. Hope. Maybe I didn’t come here just to escape. Maybe… I came here to begin.
Chapter Three – Lila
The last thing I expect after discovering that my ex has an entirely separate family is kindness. Certainly not a luxurious hotel room in Edinburgh with a view of Arthur’s Seat and a crisp, linen envelope with my name on it.
I don’t expect to see Dean again. Besides knowing his name, I don’t really know who he is despite my best efforts. The hotel staff is polite and professional yet maddeningly tight-lipped. Whenever I ask about the man who booked the suite, who left the letters, and somehow knew exactly what I needed, they only smile and say, “He asked for privacy.”
A billionaire ghost with immaculate taste and mysterious manners.
