All day, I hoped that my plane would take off before the worst weather hit. Now, I’m worried about two scenarios happening. One, the runway is snowy and windy, and our plane either skids right off it during takeoff or gets blown over, and of course … I die. Or two, they cancel my flight, and I’m forced to stay in Maine even longer than I already have.
My phone vibrates, and when I pull it out, my eyes bug out of my head when I read the message from the airline that my flight is being delayed.
Until Decemberfreaking27.
That means, for three more nights, I’m stuck in Maine. Unless I can find another airline provider, but it’s not like I want to put more money into a flight that may not happen. After all, the cost didn’t come out of Ironbound’s pocket, but my own.
Victor has no idea I’m coming back to The Big Apple empty-handed because I haven’t told him that I’m heading back yet. I figured I’d show up and pull out all the amazing properties I’d found that he could buy up, salvaging my job. Sounds so much better than doing it over the phone.
Or it did, before I got stuck here.
I look up at the few people scattered throughout the airport, all looking at their phones with sad expressions on their faces. It’s Christmas Eve, and I am sure that, unlike me, they all have loved ones they want to get home to.
I have a few good friends who will wish me merry Christmas, but aside from that, I’m on my own.
As I see a couple heading toward the exit, it hits me. I need to book a hotel. And fast. After all, how many could there possibly be?
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, caught somewhere between being angry and panicking as I look at every single hotel listing, saying they have no availability until the day after Christmas.
Tossing my phone in the seat beside me, I drag my hand down my face.
The roads are undoubtedly awful. There are no hotels to stay in nearby. And there’s no way I can sleep in one of these uncomfortable chairs in this airport.
Glancing at my phone, I sigh. There’s only one person I know who I can call and he’ll come get me right now and not make me feel bad. The same guy who gave me his number yesterday in case I needed a ride to pick my car up. Fortunately for Riley, he didn’t have to because the mechanic was nice enough to deliver it right to my rental house. Perks of him thinking I was friends with Riley, I suppose.
Snatching my phone, I hit the name on my screen and bring it to my ear while I wait for him to answer.
Riley … the man who is going to be my hero again.
This feeling that’s flowing through my body, making me irritated as fuck, is foreign. At least, it was until Stella Stewart landed in Holiday Harbor and turned me intothisguy.
The kind of guy who wants to punch his own brother on Christmas Eve while we’re supposed to be hanging out, playing cards with our parents, because even though she said nothing had happened between them, I know he had wanted something to happen. Why else was he at her fucking house?
“I don’t get it. Why did she call you?” I say, following Riley down the hallway. “She has my number too.”
“I don’t know, dickface. All that matters is she called someone.” He pauses. “Or maybe she has the hots for me. Who knows?”
I shoot him an icy glare. “No, she doesn’t.”
And as he starts to pull his jacket on, I do the same, and my mom throws her arms up, coming to the mudroom.
“Where are you going? It’s a mess out there!” she yells. “I hope you don’t plan on driving anywhere. I swore I heard you say the airport, but I must have heard you wrong, Riley, because I didn’t raise a complete idiot.”
After pulling his shoes on, he leans forward and kisses our mom on the cheek. “I have to go get a friend who is stranded at the airport, Mom. I’ll be careful.”
“Like hell you are! There have been multiple accidents already, and it’s only going to get worse.” She looks at me. “Tell him, Ridge.”
“Can’t,” I say quickly. “Because I’m going too.”
“What in the hell is wrong with you two?” Then she roars at my dad, who is, no doubt, still in his recliner, “Honey! Tell the boys to stop being stupid!”
“Stop being stupid,” Dad calls back, too lost in his show to know why we’re being stupid.
As Tucker steps into view, she throws her arms up toward him. “Don’t tell me you’re going too, Tuck. You’re my smart one.”
“Going where?” he says, confused.
Suddenly, Easton appears beside him. “I overheard Riley in the kitchen. He’s going to go pick up that hot property girl at the airport.” In true Easton form—as he’s also known as the shit stirrer—he smirks. “Though I don’t know why Ridge is going. Think he’s got the hots for her.”
