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I wasn’t claustrophobic.
Of course staying in the same place sucked, but it had nothing to do with why I’d booked Duffy and me two tickets to the English capital, and had Zimmerman use all her pull at the USCIS to issue Duffy an emergency travel document.
No, this had everything to do with Cocksucker’s forest of flowers and his text message that he was on his way to New York. If he was heading to the Big Apple, I was going to drag Duffy out of it. Simple fucking math. Two could play this game.
I felt zero guilt over getting rid of the flowers without telling her. He owed her an engagement, loyalty, and about ten thousand orgasms. I’d given her everything he hadn’t in the weeks we were together. And still, to her, he was a better prospect than me.
The worst part, though, was that Duffy fought me tooth and nail. She probably wanted to stay in New York and wait for that cheating scumbag.
Now, as we made our way to JFK in an Uber (YES, Cocksucker, YOU CAN TAKE A FUCKING UBER TO THE AIRPORT), I tried not to think about how all I was doing was postponing the inevitable. Soon enough, my wife was going to reunite with the moron who’d left her. Soon, he was going to skim his lips over her delectable curves. Bite her neck where I had just bitten her last night. Grab her by the hip bones as he plowed into her from behind.
And you care because . . . ?
Things got worse when we got to JFK. The terminal was jam packed with holidaymakers trying to get home, carrying the worst type of travelers—children. The lines were long. The flight-departure boards flickered on and off due to electricity shortages because of the heat wave, and drunken tourists crashed into Duffy, accidentally spilling beer all over her dress.
By the time we passed TSA, we were both agitated, thirsty, andreallyfucking late. Blame it on Duffy taking two and a half years to pack for one weekend.
There was nothing remotely romantic about the entire trip so far. Not that I was shooting for it, but it’d be nice not to hold the worldwide record for shittiest honeymoon on earth.
It was bad enough that Kieran and I had had to fake his impending death to put her on that flight. A secret we agreed to keep between us.
“I forgot how hellish traveling is for the poor,” Duffy moaned, pressing her forehead against my shoulder as we trekked through the moving walkway. “BJ and I used to travel business. It was one of the perks of being with the arsehole.”
“Suck it up, buttercup.” I quickened my pace, not wanting us to miss the flight. She struggled to keep up, because of course, she had to wear pumps to a red-eye.
As per Murphy’s Law, our gate was on the edge of the fucking universe. About five miles by foot from the TSA point. We ran, shouldering past the thick crowd of travelers, rushing past duty-free shops, the time slipping between our fingers.
It took us twenty minutes to make it to the gate, and by the time we got there, the rows of seats were empty, and the person behind the check-in kiosk was snoozing.
That Guinness record for worst honeymoon ever was becoming an actual prospect.
“Oh, bugger.” Duffy collapsed against a wall. “We missed our flight.”
“Fuckers,” I muttered. “Could’ve waited.”
“We were forty minutes late,” Duffy pointed out, perching her ass on her trolley with a sigh. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken so long to pack.”
“Why did you then?” I barked out. I wasn’t really mad at her. More about the part where we were about to head home and wait for fucktard to knock on our door and sweep her off her feet.
She shot me an injured look. “I haven’t seen my family in almost a year. There was a lot I bought for them but didn’t send because shipping’s too expensive.”
I rubbed my mouth, looking away.Fuck.“Wait here.”
I trudged to the check-in point, where a sleepy airline representative was playingBest Fiends.
I rapped her counter. “Two tickets to your next London flight.”
She looked up, dropping her phone. “Heathrow or Gatwick?”
“Whatever’s earlier.”
“Let me check, handsome.”
She began clicking away on her computer. I shot a glance at Duffy behind me. She was gnawing on her inner cheek, childlike. What an idiot I was to book us a flight we had three hours to prepare for. Now she might not see her family.
“Sir?”
I whipped my head back to the woman.
