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“Oh, yes. But I think I do,” he continues. “Perhaps I saw you?? Does that seem —”
“Miss?”
It's a woman's voice, and I twist around in my seat immediately, grateful that help has come. Did she see us? Did she know that I needed her?
The man in the suit settles back in his seat confirming that he was, indeed, way too damn close to me. What was he thinking? The French, I swear!
“Yes?” I stammer.
It is a flight attendant, and she grips the back of the seat in front of us as she leans forward. The plane is still ascending steeply and she has to hold herself at an angle to keep from tipping over. I assumed that flight attendants were generally strapped in like the rest of us during this kind of part of the journey, but I guess not.
Then I see she's got something in her hand, and she is holding it out to me.
“Miss?” she repeats. She blinks large, almond-shaped eyes and purses her lips suggestively as she glances at the man next to me. What is she doing? Is she also French? Is this some kind of conspiracy?
But it's a card. A cream-colored card. She wants me to take it from her, and my heart leaps as I think that I know what it is.
12
Raleigh
Traffic was wretched getting to De Gaulle airport. It didn't help that I'd spent way too much time watching Jordan sleep instead of getting ready to go. But I didn't want to leave her and trying to tear myself away from the warm sensation of her skin left me feeling somewhat bereft.
Not only was the desire to be close to her overwhelmingly intense, the knowledge that I should want her this badly weighed heavily on my mind as well.
But in any case, she was the one who said she was leaving. She wants to go to the States, and I do believe that's the right move. But it's also the right move for me to get there first and create a soft space for her to land. Well, isn't it?
I'm being foolish, I tell myself. I'm acting like a fool. I'm letting myself get in way too deep. I'm acting like an overprotective boyfriend.
Boyfriend. The word puts a foul taste in my mouth. Who has boyfriends? Boyfriends are for children.
As the limo idles in semi-gridlocked traffic, I get my plans in order. Happily, Richard Branson coincidentally brought a Gulfstream that's gassed and ready to go at Charles de Gaulle. It only took me two phone calls to get a hold of him this time, and that'
s a relief. The Gulfstream will cut hours off the flight.
But when we pull up to the Departures area, a taxicab stops in front of us, and she gets out. At first it's like I'm watching her from far away. I see her through the window emerging from the taxi, muttering to herself and scowling. The window is smeared with bleary drizzle that’s just started falling, but I can see her furrowed brow, the downturn of the corners of her mouth.
And I realize I've done this to her. She's mad at me. I left. I run through the probable scenario through my mind. I imagine her waking up, finding the note that I had fretted over for long minutes like a highschool boy. What could I say to her, that she would accept, I wondered? But she'd been so determined, I convinced myself she wasn't really going to care. She was leaving anyway.
And yet, what was I really thinking? Of course she would care. We had just been intimate. We had just slept in each other's arms all night, and then I left her there without even waking her up to say goodbye.
Of course she's angry with me, and seeing it in real life is much worse than I imagined. But I don't leave the limo. I watch her for a few moments, letting it sink in. She's on her own, she's going back to the States, and she's angry.
Sliding my cell phone from my pocket, I swipe the face to activate it. In a few seconds I get the concierge from the hotel back on the line.
“Oui?”
“Yes,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as though she can somehow hear me. “I’d like to book two first class flights to the United States. Can you make that arrangement for me?”
“Bien sûr, Monsieur King,” the concierge answers, in a clipped, professional tone.
Looks like I'll be flying commercial after all. Slipping sunglasses over my nose though the sky is gray and not too bright, I head into the airport and follow her at a safe distance. She stalks toward the ticketing counter with her hand digging around in her bag. While I hang back, she negotiates with the agent who tips her head in some kind of apology.
She's trying to get a flight for today, I assume. That's going to be difficult feat to manage.
But presumably, she does. In a few moments, the agent is handing her folded envelope with a courteous smile. Jordan takes it and heads off toward Customs after just a few moments of swinging her gaze uncertainly left and right. Somehow, she doesn't see me.
Well, this is creepy, I scold myself. Am I really just going to follow her through the airport? Just watch her? Do that not just seem a little ironic?
