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“Potato chips.”
“Petrol.”
“Gasoline.”
“Boot,” I’d say.
She’d smile and say, “Trunk.” She always thought that one was especially funny.
I’d pronounceal-yoo-min-ee-um, and she’d laugh.
“It’suh-loo-mi-num, silly,” she’d say.
“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong,” I’d say. “There’s an extraiin there you’re not pronouncing. Gotcha!”
I chuckle to myself. That silly game never got old. God, I loved teasing her. Getting her riled up was my favorite pastime. It was worth it just to watch her cheeks turn pink. And then I’d kiss her, and that would inevitably lead to—stop thinking about her. It just makes you miserable.
The captain comes on over the loudspeaker to thank us for flying with him and telling us to have a good day. The exit door opens, and the first passengers disembark.
I don’t rush to get up, instead spending a few minutes composing myself. I’ve never been a fan of flying. But the good news is, I survived yet another cross-Atlantic flight. Eventually, I stand and lazily fan out the lapels of my jacket. This was an impromptu trip. I came straight from the office to the airport, not bothering to change out of my suit. Sarah, my housekeeper, had already packed a bag for me, and her husband, Bruce, my chauffeur, picked me up at Carmichael & Son and drove me to the airport.
I was surprised when Skye texted me early this morning, asking me to come for the weekend. Because of the time difference, it was the middle of the night for her. Her message was uncharacteristically abrupt.
Skye: Connor, can you come? Please? It’s important.
Connor: Of course. I’ll catch the first flight. Is everything all right?
I was starting to worry there was something wrong with her or the new baby.
Skye: We’re okay. Just please come. And don’t worry about the ticket. Will’s already bought it for you.
And now, here I am, just landed in New York City.The Big Apple.
Where Kennedy lives.
My chest tightens painfully at the realization that she’s nearby.
Kennedy. My Ken.She’s so close, I can almost sense her. Part of me toys with the insane idea of taking a detour and stopping in to see her. But if I do, I’ll miss my connecting flight to Cincinnati. Yes, I keep tabs on her. I know she lives in a flat in Brooklyn and that she works for a capital investment firm in Manhattan—Wentner Financial, or something like that.
I’d give anything to lay eyes on her right now.One glimpse, just to assure myself she’s well and happy.
As I rise from my seat and open the overhead compartment that holds my hand luggage, my ears are filled with the sound of chattering voices and the shuffle of shoes against the thinly carpeted floor as travelers head for the exit.
My gaze roves over the cabin, and I notice but don’t encourage the come-hither gazes of a pair of attractive air hostesses who are blatantly checking me out.
“Ladies,” I say, giving them a cool nod. Polite, yet not encouraging. I’m not interested. Besides, I don’t have time to mingle with the staff. I’m on a tight schedule—I have less than an hour to catch my connecting flight.
The young women giggle like a pair of schoolgirls as I pass by.
Throwing my bag’s leather strap over my shoulder, I join the queue waiting to vacate the aircraft. As I’m seated in business class, I have to wait for first class to disembark first.
I’ve never cared much for flying first class. I had always thought such a luxury was solely for the indulgent rich. But when my grandfather passed away a few years ago, I became one of them. Because my father had already passed a couple of years earlier, I was the sole heir of my paternal grandfather’s vast accumulation of assets. At the age of twenty, I instantly became one of the wealthiest individuals in the UK. I went from being a relative nobody to the talk of the town—in London, that is—and finding my picture showing up in tabloid papers. I was thrown into a world where money talks and flying first class isn’t merely a luxury but is expected. It’s taken some getting used to because, at heart, I’m still just a regular bloke.
My grandfather was a co-founder of Carmichael & Son Capital Investments, eventually becoming one of the most respected members of senior management. He was second in seniority only to Fitzwilliam Carmichael, himself—my best friend Will’s father. But with my grandfather no longer warming his office seat, the weight of his accomplishments suddenly sat on my shoulders.
With his passing, a lot of expectations were placed onme.
I inherited not just Reginald Murphy’s bank accounts, but his many properties throughout England. I also suddenly found myself elevated from my lowly position as Will’s personal assistant to a junior account manager. Suddenly, I had to learn on the job. I guess Carmichael & Son couldn’t have a blue-blooded billionaire working as a personal assistant.
