The plane takes off. I stare out of the window, my body still, a rock settled heavily in my gut.
For the whole flight to Sydney, I swear I barely breathe.
* * *
I told Bianca I don’t want to be interrupted. I have a bucket of coffee, a massive blueberry muffin and a mountain of work to do.
Nonetheless, a little before nine o’clock, my intercom buzzes.
I snatch it up without lifting my head from the brief I’m reading.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Grace.’
I purse my lips. ‘That’s fine.’ My tone says it’s not fine. I’ve become a little less nice than I used to be. I think Bianca’s great and I like her, but I just don’t have a lot of room left for civility right now. Even Mum gets short shrift when she calls.
I’m just so tired.
‘I have a Mr Hart for you.’
My body goes into a state of shock. Adrenalin floods my system, my mouth fills with the taste of metal. I sit up straighter, reaching my hand out for the phone. ‘What line?’ The question’s breathy. I swallow. I don’t want to sound breathy when I speak to him. I want to sound calm. Cool. Unaffected.
Over him.
As if.
‘No.’ Bianca’s voice comes as if from an echo chamber. I surmise she’s cupped the receiver. ‘He’s here.’
My heart slams against my ribcage. I swear I feel a rib actually shatter with the force of it. I stand up jerkily, awkwardly, running a hand over my stomach, my thighs, then lifting it to my hair.
‘I... Give me a minute.’ I replace the handset, pacing out from behind my desk, walking towards the window that shows a glimmer of Sydney Harbour in the distance. I breathe in. Out. In. Out.
Close my eyes and he’s there. I see his face. I see him. I feel him like a ghost, wrapping around my body.
I expel a soft breath, trying to calm the flock of seagulls beating their wings against my stomach.
He’s here.
Outside my office.
Thirty-four days after walking away from me, he’s back. And, no matter what’s brought him here, nothing erases that. Nothing.
With that sobering thought I move across the room, pulling my office door inwards.
But hell.
I’d forgotten.
Not what he looks like, but just...the impact of him. It’s more than his Hollywood-handsome face and powerful frame; it’s all of him. He has this charisma that’s completely compelling.
He’s not looking my way. I have a second or two to fortify myself before he turns, his eyes immediately catching mine.
Lightning strikes.
With every single fibre of my being I concentrate on standing where I am, holding my ground, looking as calm as can be when inside I’m quivering.
It’s early.
Did he stay in Sydney last night?