Dirty Headlines

The game was still playing, with the Yankees dominating the Astros, and that’s how I knew Dad really was serious about me reading this book. He came back, blowing the dust off the cover, and handed it to me.

“If you travel at all on your way to this little vacation, make sure you read it. Your mother believed in love. Very much so. She believed in fate, too. That’s why you grew up to be the heroine she always admired.”

I smiled and thanked him, and I didn’t wait for tomorrow.

I devoured the whole thing in one night.

Every single page. A to Z.

Then I read bits of it again as I packed my summer clothes and dragged my suitcase down our narrow stairway in the morning, waiting for the cab.

My heart was not lonely.

It was desperate and beating and alive.

It frightened and delighted me at the same time, knowing that I could, and I would, and I should fall in love—whether it was with my boss or otherwise.

And when the alarm started singing, I slid into the right Chucks and wiggled my toes inside them, knowing he was going to notice. They were yellow.

Hope.

I’d only been on a plane two times prior to my trip to Florida with Célian.

One had taken us to California when I was six—Mom’s sister got married, but she had since decided to divorce, then migrate to Australia. She sent a postcard when Mom died, but didn’t bother to keep in touch. The second time was for a spontaneous vacation in New Orleans. That had happened when I was fourteen. Dad had been trying his best to act like everything was fine after Mom died. He dyed his hair at home to forget he had any silver strands, took cooking classes, and decided we should live in the moment. New Orleans was great. Us living off mac and cheese for two consecutive months afterward because we’d spent too much was not.

I’d assumed I was likely to get on a plane again sometime soon. I’d imagined Milton would plan something nice for our honeymoon, if we ever got married.

Business class, however, was something I’d never imagined.

Yet here I was, clutching my tattered copy of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter with a glass of champagne by my side, wondering where on Earth Célian was. We had five more minutes before the plane took off.

He stumbled through the door right before they locked it, wearing the same clothes as yesterday and nursing a cup of Starbucks. His leather Armani duffel bag hung lazily from the tips of his fingers, and the minute he saw me, his tired face cracked into a dangerous smile. I licked my lips, looking down and pressing my thighs together.

What the hell was wrong with me? Ever since I’d learned the truth about what Mom had told me, thinking of Célian was weird.

It felt like we were no longer rivals, like he had the upper hand. Which was ridiculous, because he always had. I’d simply refused to accept it.

Célian shoved his bag into the overhead bin and thanked the air hostess for hysterically offering to do so herself. He then slid into the seat next to me. He smelled of alcohol, coffee, and hope.

I wiggled my toes inside my yellow Chucks. “Came straight from work?”

Instead of answering my question, he cupped the back of my neck and erased the distance between us by sealing my mouth with a hot, demanding kiss. I groaned against his lips. When we disconnected, his eyes were half-lidded and drunk, and I assumed mine were too.

“That’s…very relationship-y,” I mumbled, staring at his lips. “Did I get all the information right?”

Célian plucked a red marker from the book sitting in my lap, uncapped it, and wrote A+ on the back of my hand. Then he kissed the inside of it, like Phoenix had done to me, and like I’d done to him. I swooned inside.

“Here’s to many more revelations, and to saving the world, one item at a time.” He took my glass from my side table, tipped it back, and then smashed his lips into mine again, this time letting me taste the alcohol in his mouth.

The plane had begun to take off when he looked more closely at the book in my lap. He grabbed it, examining it from all angles.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“The best,” I said, resting my hand on the cover.

He put his hand on mine.

My heart smiled at that.

And all I could think was, please don’t hurt us.

Shortly after takeoff, I sent Maman a heads-up of what was to come. Diplomatic it was not, but if she was looking for direct and honest, she certainly received it, and in spades.

Célian: Hopping on a plane to discuss Mathias with you, who, by the way, fucked my fiancée over a year ago. Consequently, I no longer have a fiancée. But I am bringing over a woman, so keep your claws tucked in.