Page 1 of Rules Of Our Own

CHAPTER1

MIA

“Now boardingfor flight WS2371 from Ottawa to San Francisco,” a woman’s voice crackles through the cavernous airport’s speakers. I can’t miss this flight. Not when the next one’s not for another four hours. Tonight’s the first night of Piper and Lucas’s destination wedding celebration, and we’re supposed to be hanging out just us girls. No doubt involving copious amounts of alcohol, which, at this point, I desperately need.

I’d taken the early shift at the hospital—I’m a first-year intern, so my days are absolute chaos. Then, mistakenly, I thought I could squeeze in an extra hour of research on my Prosthetics For Kids charity. Myone more minutehad magically morphed into two wasted hours, leaving me in this mess.

“Are you listening?” Gerard’s voice cuts through the phone.

I adjust my cell, pinned between my shoulder and ear. “Yes, of course.”

“I’m serious, Mia. Two months, then I’m moving the funding to Eric’s team.”

“That’s not enough time.” My throat goes dry, and my steps falter as his words slam into me. When my local Prosthetics For Kids fundraiser took off, Gerard was the first to offer to back me financially. He works for AstroCore Holdings, a company that helps allocate funds to different charities.

I’d been over the moon knowing this was my chance to expand Prosthetics For Kids from grassroots to national. He’d warned me then that his support depended on me figuring out how to expand my backyard fundraiser to a full-fledged charity. Which translates directly into raising money. One backer alone isn’t enough. At the time, I thought, how hard could it be?

Hard. Really flipping hard.

“I’m sorry, Mia. It’s not personal. I can’t tie up funding in a charity that’s not going to take off. You know this.”

It’s not personal,my ass.

Nothing in my life has ever been this personal. My heart drops at the thought of those innocent kids going without the help they need. I can almost feel their smiles slowly fading and see the anguish and worry return to their parents’ eyes.

I weave through people waiting at their gates and grit my teeth. “I’ll get it done.”

“You better. This is your last chance,” Gerard says, his voice steady, making it crystal clear he means it.

The phone goes silent.

My eyes sting, and I blink back tears. I’m going to need an actual miracle to pull this off. Unfortunately, praying hasn’t resulted in any help.

Trust me. I’ve tried.

With the lack of divine intervention, I’ve been killing myself to raise the money. I’ve spent what feels like years of my life researching hashtags, trends, viral freaking sounds, knowing that social media’s my best shot at making this work.

“We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time for flight WS2371 from Ottawa to San Francisco.”

I squint to see the gate sign down the hall, and my heart kicks up as I double my pace. With the change of speed, my suitcase goes from humming behind me to the cheap handle twisting in my grip.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I give it a quick tug, trying to balance it out, but the hard plastic bottom catches the back of my heel.

Argh!I swallow my cry and bite my cheek against the shards of pain radiating through my foot. Every cuss word known to man flies through my head as I reach down and fix the strap of my Croc. I fight the urge to collapse on the ground, clutching my foot, and keep moving, hobbling as fast as I can.

There’s a crowd of people at my gate, but instead of forming lines to board the plane, they’re all staring toward the desk, which is currently blocked from view.

Relief washes over me, and I take a few calming breaths. I’m one step closer to my night of gossiping with Sidney and Piper while we put together decorations for her wedding. This is like Bridesmaids 101.

I’ve been hiding my exhaustion from my friends, even as I’m sliding toward total burnout—holding on by a thread—and I desperately need this.I squeeze between two men and scrunch up my nose at the overpowering scent of cologne. Please, dear God, don’t let them sit next to me.

There’s an attendant with perfectly pinned-back hair speaking with a man at the front. He’s pleading with her. “You don’t understand. My wife’s having our baby. I don’t know what happened. She’s not due for at least three more weeks.” He places both hands on the counter. “She needs me.”

His tone shreds through my chest, and a desperate desire to do something, anything, squeezes my ribs.

The woman speaks into her microphone, “This man is trying to get home for the birth of his child. I’m calling for a volunteer to agree to being bumped to the next flight.”

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