“Yeah. That’s him,” Faye said, with a slight tinge of disappointment in her voice. So there really was no getting off the hook for this.
“Are you interviewing him?” Eden asked enthusiastically. “Make sure to take a selfie. And do other things I would say if there were not children present,” she added deviously.
“I’m flying out tomorrow to interview him at his home in London,” Faye said. Saying it out loud for the first time that day suddenly made the trip seem all too real. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. In case I was in a plane crash or something.”
“Geez. Positive outlook, sis.”
“I know. I just worry...”
“About being alone with a sexy-as-hell famous man who’s used to getting anything he wants?”
“Pretty much.”
“Listen,” Eden said, her voice sounding more serious. “You’ve suffered enough. You deserve to let yourself have a little fun.”
“I know,” Faye whispered, the events of the night it had all gone so very wrong flooding back to her. She swallowed hard, refusing to renege on the promise she’d made herself to not cry about this again.
Sensing her sister’s mood, Eden switched to a perkier tone. “Well, make sure to take lots of pictures. Oh, and bring me back a souvenir.”
“Like what?” Faye asked incredulously. Sometimes her big sister acted like she was five.
“You’ll think of something.”
Faye hung up the call with a smile forming on her lips. She looked at the picture of her and Eden on her refrigerator standing in a London phone booth on a family trip there as teenagers. Surrounding it was further evidence of the fact that she was a die-hard anglophile—a Beatles postcard, a magnet from Harrods and another one featuring a Union Jack.
There was no denying it—London, and Gregor Wright, were calling.
* * *
After a fitful night’s sleep—Faye could never sleep the night before a flight—the alarm went off at 4 a.m. She took a quick shower and did a last-minute check of the apartment. She then lugged her suitcase down the four flights of stairs, hoping not to disturb her neighbors, before pushing her way out of the building and onto the sidewalk where she could hail a cab.
A short taxi ride later—there was almost no traffic at this early hour—Faye went through security, found her gate and settled into a seat with the file folder on Gregor to wait for her boarding call. Ever punctual, she always liked getting to the airport with plenty of time to spare.
After a while, she looked up from an article about Gregor’s favorite Thanksgiving recipes, including a roguish photo of him in an apron with three-day stubble, to check out some of her fellow travelers. There were plenty of people flying solo, presumably on business, a few families dressed in their comfy sweats, their seats overflowing with bags and snacks and amusements, and seated just across from her, a young couple obviously on their honeymoon. The woman was wearing tight jeans and high-heeled boots and looked about the same age as Faye, and she could tell from the sparkle in her eye that she had to be a newlywed. Her husband, a tall man dressed in a gray sweater and jeans, seemed to dote on her. Faye smiled wanly in their direction. As hard as she tried, it wasn’t easy to let go of all the plans she had made for her life as a married woman. She would never admit it to anyone, but seeing other happy couples made her stomach churn. Other people in love only served to highlight how very alone she felt.
When it was finally time
to board, Faye found herself seated near a window with an empty seat next to her. Perfect! she thought, wrapping the huge cashmere scarf she always brought on trips around her shoulders and fishing for Bev’s file folder in her bag. But before she could settle in, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she saw that it was the newlywed.
“So sorry to ask, but would you mind switching so we could sit together?” the woman asked.
Faye thought about saying no but decided that would be too mean.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly, gathering up her things.
“Thank you so much!” the woman cried, overenthusiastically.
Faye made her way into the aisle and squeezed past a burly man in a faux leather jacket to find the middle seat—with another just as large guy on the other side—that she had agreed to occupy for the next seven hours. And, to add insult to injury, she’d have to look at the heads of the happy couple right in front of her. Once the plane reached cruising altitude, they would probably be making out, or more.
Faye pulled out her file folder and was just about to resign herself—not just to the seat, but most likely dying alone in a fourth-floor walk-up apartment, when she heard a voice call out her name.
“Faye? Faye Curry?”
Faye sat up straight and looked around the plane, confused. Her first thought was that she was in trouble. Had the TSA found radioactive materials in her checked luggage? No, of course they hadn’t, she told herself.
“Excuse me? Is Faye here?”
As the voice got closer, she recognized a distinct British accent. And when a man with spiky brown hair, sunglasses and a leather bomber jacket appeared in the aisle, the hair on her arms stood up on end.