An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone
Chapter Twenty-Three
The problem with madcap plans is that…well, they’re madcap. So much for the comfort and routine of the shop, and the fact that it’s ready to open again tomorrow. Instead, I’m upstairs packing a small suitcase for America while Lily sits on my sofa bed, drinking wine like she was born to it.
“You know the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” I inform her, rolling another T-shirt and wedging it into my suitcase. “God, I don’t even know what I’m packing.”
“Let me help, being the jet-setter that I am.”
“How long am I going for?”
“However long it takes to find Blake and deliver your message. Clearly.” She gives me a knowing look, as though that was achingly obvious and I’m regrettably a day late to the party.
“New York is big,” I point out.
She ignores me. “Pack a week’s worth of underwear. A couple of T-shirts, a couple of nice shirts, a jacket, a pullover. One pair of nice jeans. Toiletries. Anything else you can buy if you need it. And just take one good pair of shoes in your suitcase, the other one is whatever’s on your feet.”
I glance down at my well-loved brown leather boots. “Passport?”
“Now you’re getting into the spirit of this,” she enthuses. “Make sure you have your bank cards too.”
“God, I’m going to regret this.”
“Have faith.” Lily’s grin outshines that of the Cheshire Cat. Clearly, she loves seeing me out of sorts, flailing in the shallow end of the pool.
She goes through my suitcase to make sure I’m equipped to her liking. I round up Lily-authenticated toiletries and give her a wry look. “I think that’s me sorted, then.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” She gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “This will be brilliant, you’ll see.”
It’s a long train ride out to Heathrow, plenty of time for second thoughts and even more abundant fear to settle in. Fear of flying. Fear of actually finding Blake and having to see him—and talk about feelings. Lily won’t hear of any of these second thoughts, shaking it off as we walk into the terminal, which bustles with summer holiday travelers, sunburnt and festive.
“Get water once you’re through security.” She pats my arm. “Just like a proper jet-setter.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I inform her as we look at the oversize departure board for my terminal and gate. It’s a digital cascade of flight information.
“You aren’t.” She eyes me with no small amount of concern.
“Don’t worry, I’ll warn you if I actually puke.”
Meanwhile, I’m eyeing the person who takes the sniffer dogs around the gathered travelers. The dog gives my bags a thorough snuffle while I watch, perturbed. Finding nothing, dog and handler move on.
“Seriously. I’m so not cut out for this.”
Lily pats my face and wraps a blue scarf around my throat over my black T-shirt. “There. Chic but also practical when the air-conditioning goes overtime on the plane. You packed sunglasses?”
“Yes…”
“A book?”
I give her a look.
“All right, all right,” she laughs, entirely undaunted. After all, she’s not the one flying to New York. “I’ll walk you to security after, but then you’re on your own. Time to fly the nest.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“It’s a brilliant idea. You’ll see.”
At takeoff, my eyes are squeezed shut as I tremble. It’s terribly unbecoming, but I really do hate flying. It’s a sharp takeoff, precise. My stomach lurches somewhere behind us over London.
It’s a full minute before I dare peek out the window at late evening summer sky, still bright.
The only thing keeping me from full-bore panic is thinking of Blake. Thinking of how upset he was after the paparazzi photos hit the press. And, importantly, our time together before that.
God, the heat of his mouth and the weight of his body and the things the man can do with that tongue…
I barely look at my book during the flight to New York, lost in daydreams to distract myself and the occasional restless nap. Except they’re fake naps, because I can’t stop thinking about Blake.
I don’t want to stop thinking about Blake.
In a daze, I deplane in New York. Despite hours of flying, albeit west across time zones, it’s still evening local time. Adrenaline’s kicked in to keep me going.
By some miracle, I’ve arrived intact, with my things. And I didn’t puke, not even once, though my stomach’s in knots. It’s not any better now that I’m on the ground again. Even with my dread of planes and flying, I have half a mind to turn around and get back on that same plane home. Forget about this harebrained idea. But I’m here, and I want Blake.
After checking into my hotel, I study his Instagram for any clues. Still no selfies. But there’s another New York photo. It’s all silvery skyscrapers.
How many people did Blake say lived in this city? Twice the size of London, at least. And how to find him through all of this?
If I was Blake, where would I be? Where do actors hang out?
I refresh his Instagram, then sit bolt upright.
It’s a bloody miracle. Have the social media deities been paying attention to my suffering?
He’s at the New York Public Library, the big one with the lions under the evening sky. At last, a photo with landmarks. And it’s just been posted.
Time to read some of my favorite poets, says Blake’s caption.
I gulp.
I needed to catch a taxi ten minutes ago.