Page 29 of At First Flight
“Yes, Ashvi. I don’t have time to process all that right now. I need to pack, and I can’t even remember where I left my shoes, let alone where I shoved my favorite bra. So unless you want me showing up with nothing but a duffel bag full of expired granola bars and mismatched socks—”
“I’m on it,” she cuts in, voice full of motion now. “Do you want backup leggings or distraction wine?”
“Both. Obviously.”
“And Lila?”
“Yeah?”
“You can do this.”
Something catches in my throat. Because even though I’m spiraling and flailing and maybe making a huge mistake, there’s something comforting about hearing her say that. Like I’m not completely losing it—just slightly.
“Thanks, Ashvi,” I whisper.
“I’ll see you in twenty. And you better spill everything while we sort your life into laundry piles.”
And just like that, the chaos feels a little less loud. Because I have my best friend, a wild plan, and the tiniest flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something real.
Wasting no time boxing up the few things I’d unpacked at Ashvi’s house, I spend the next two hours trying to field all of my best friend’s questions. It’s not until I promise she can follow me over to his house that I get her to shut up.
The only morsel of information I give her is that I met Dean on the flight to Scotland and that he might be gorgeous.
As we arrive at his house, the lights on the main floor twinkling in the dusky sky, my nerves bubble to the surface like a volcano about to erupt.
I jump from my car, diverting Ashvi as she gleefully exits her own car.
“Ashvi, best behavior, please.”
“Aw, I just want to meet the kiddos, Lila. And maybe snoop around the house.”
Hitching my arm through hers, I nearly tug us to the ground as I walk up the porch. “No snooping. You’re here to help me unload, and that’s it, Vi.”
“Aw, but the journalist in me loves to snoop. It’s part of my amazing personality.”
“No. Now behave.”
My knock goes unanswered, the soft echo swallowed by the quiet. I hesitate only a moment before wrapping my fingers around the brushed metal knob and twisting slowly. The door creaks open on silent hinges, and I step inside, my breath catching at the stillness that greets me. The entryway is immaculate. Dark hardwood floors gleam beneath my shoes, offset by warm cream walls and crisp white trim. A narrow console table sits beneath a circular mirror, its surface bare but for a small ceramic bowl and a single, unlit candle. It’s beautiful. Understated. Masculine without being cold.
But something tugs at me, subtle and hollow. There are no shoes by the door. No school bags tossed to the side. No family photos smiling back from the walls. No tiny fingerprints smudged on the glass. Just curated stillness. A house waiting tobe lived in, to be claimed. To be made into something more than just square footage and good taste. It’s a snapshot of someone who knows how to survive, but maybe hasn’t quite figured out how to stay.
“This house is awesome,” my friend mumbles, her head moving in all different directions.
Just as I’m about to force Ashvi to slip her shoes off with me, Dean comes around the corner wearing a black apron and holding a mixing bowl in his hands.
“Oh good, you’re back. I thought you’d be gone longer,” he says. The grin I’m learning is his signature grows by the second as our gaze’s lock.
“I didn’t have much to pack. Dean, this is my friend Ashvi. She’s come to help.”
“Oh great. Ashvi, it’s nice to meet you,” he says, walking forward, extending his hand in greeting. My friend stands frozen in place, mouth parted like a blow-up doll. I’m not even mad at her reaction because I know full well how enticing my new boss is.
“Ashvi.” Nudging her in the side, my friend finally comes to her senses and shakes Dean’s hand but remains silent.
“If you give me a minute, I can set this batter down and grab your things.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can grab it.”
“Lila,” he says forcefully. “Let me do this.”
