Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
LEXI
Great, my ride to the airport is parked right outside our East Village apartment.
I turn away from the window, yank up the handle of my carry-on, and grab the small duffel bag from my bed. It occurred to me that I probably don’t need to conform to usual airline allowances on a private plane only after I’d spent forever paring down what to pack.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and wheel the case out of my room.
“I’m leaving,” I call to Becca, who’s in her usual Sunday evening position on the couch, under a blanket, eating a bar of salted caramel chocolate and watching a movie.
“Have fun with the hot prince.” Her head, hair piled on top in a messy bun, pokes over the back of the couch.
“Stop calling him that.” My phone pings and I reach for it in my pocket.
“Just being factually correct,” she says.
The text is from Oliver.
My panicked eyes flit over the words again. Words that make my heart race like it’s had an electric shock and drained all the blood from my hands, making them icy cold.
“What’s wrong?” Becca sits up straight. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”
My mouth too dry, my throat too constricted, and my brain too mangled to form words, I drop my bag and move toward the sofa to hold the phone in front of her face.
OLIVER
Been thinking. My first instinct was correct. You pretending to be my girlfriend can only go horribly wrong. And worse for you than for me. I can’t put you through that. Sorry to mess you around, but let’s do the best we can with talking while I’m away, and I’ll see you when I get back.
Becca shrugs. “In all fairness, he’s not wrong.”
“I have to go. It’s the only way it works.
I realized last night that this is a bonus, an advantage.
” I trot back to my luggage. “It means I get to meet his family and the staff, experience how he was raised, get a real feel for that life. And get out into the village and see what locals think about him. It’ll give me more depth to write from.
Make the book much better. Maybe even make it something I’m proud of.
If I have to do this, I can at least do my best to make it good, and not just write up some stories he’s told me that might or might not be totally accurate. ”
“Sooo, you’re going to the airport anyway?”
I open the front door. “Yup.”
“Without even replying to his text?”
“What text? I haven’t seen a text. Been way too busy packing.”
“And you’re going to force yourself onto a private jet after the solitary passenger, a British prince, has told you he doesn’t want you there?”
“Not force.” I maneuver my case through the door, bashing the duffel bag on the frame. “More like convince him. Make him see sense. Use all the skills that make me a journalist who can persuade someone to talk to me even though they think they don’t want to.”
“It sounds like he was being nice and trying to protect you. Maybe you really don’t know what you’re getting into.”
I look back at Becca over my shoulder. “I can take care of myself. And part of that is writing a good book, not a shitty one.”
“I’ll be here when you get back if he doesn’t let you on the plane,” she says.
“He’ll let me on.”
I close the door behind me and head down the hallway toward the elevator not even remotely sure that he will.
I spend almost the entire ride to Teterboro Airport researching how you get to a private plane, whether you have to go through security or passport control or if we can drive right up to the aircraft’s steps.
The last message Oliver sent me about this yesterday just said to meet him at the StellarVantage terminal, wherever the hell that is. The driver acted like it was familiar, so I’ll have to trust he takes me to the right place.
But since Oliver clearly won’t be waiting for me there now, I need to figure out what to do when I get there.
The driver looks experienced and wise. I’ll try him.
“My first time on a private plane,” I say, in a super girly voice. “So excited. Have you driven many people to the private jet part of the airport before?”
“A few over the years, yes. Took that actor guy who has the gin company once. A woman billionaire from Australia who makes collectible cars—she was fascinating. An exiled Eastern European princess, very quiet woman. Oh, and what’s that guy’s name, the one who—”
“Is it all glamorous, like in the movies?” I do an exaggerated hair toss. “Like, do you drive right up to the plane, hop out of the car, and run up the stairs?”
“At some airports you can. Teterboro doesn’t allow it,” he says. “You have to go inside the terminal. And if you’re flying international, StellarVantage has you pass through security. But it’s not a long, slow line like for us regular folks.” He winks at me in the rearview mirror.
“That’s great. I’ve been stressing all day about maybe doing something wrong and embarrassing myself.”
“Just act like you belong,” he says. “Plenty of people get through life with zero skills by doing exactly that.”
“Yup. Met a few of them in my time.” Have I ever. And one of them is sitting on a plane I need to be on.
My phone beeps with an email. My mom’s reply to the message I sent her last night about me going on this trip and casually mentioning that the press love to make shit up about Prince Oliver so she shouldn’t believe anything she reads.
Sounds very exciting! Hope you have a lovely time. Send us some pics! About to head to work. Last night was hell. Might have hurt my back flipping a mattress. And we had a resident pass away. Take care, sweetie. Love you.
Mom’s worked nights at a care facility my whole life.
She took that shift so she’d be around to do the school runs for me and my brother.
When we were old enough to go alone, she stayed on nights, saying she was used to it and the extra money was nice.
But living life upside-down takes its toll, and she looks permanently tired, even though she says she isn’t.
Dad always taught at private schools, but even that higher salary’s never going to make them millionaires.
I drop back in the seat and try to relax for the rest of the ride.
But it’s tricky because it suddenly occurs to me that Oliver might have had me removed from the passenger list and I won’t be able to get through security without going all Black Widow.
My heart’s beating so hard the woman behind the front desk of the private terminal can probably see it through my jacket.
She’s had my passport in her hand and been looking at her screen for way longer than I think she would if I were still on the list.
What happens if I’m not? Do I get arrested? Dragged to a holding cell? Jesus, this whole rich and powerful world is one giant fucked-up mess I do not understand. Or belong in.
“There you go, Miss Lane.” Her pink lipstick forms a broad and well-practiced smile as she holds out my passport. “Larry over there will x-ray your bags for you. Walk through the scanner next to it, and you’re all set.”
My hand visibly shakes as I take back my passport. I was still on the list.
Phew.
Guess you can always rely on male lack of thought when it comes to dealing with the finer details of admin.
“Thank you.” I clutch my passport to my chest.
“Larry will help you onboard too,” she adds.
Oh God, no. I do not need an airport official helping me to board something I’m not supposed to be boarding.
“Which plane is it?” I ask.
“The one on the left.” She points through the large wall of glass. “With the steps lowered.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Don’t forget to help yourself to drinks and snacks from the bar at the end.” She leans forward over the desk as if sharing a deep secret. “The coconut butter cookies are to die for.”
“Thank you.” There is no chance of my stomach keeping down cookies or any other form of food right now.
After Larry has put what are probably the first non-designer bags he’s ever handled through the x-ray machine, he meets me on the other side of the scanner.
“This way, miss.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” I grab my wheelie case from the conveyor belt and balance the duffel on top. “Totally fine. I can manage.”
“I’m very happy to take the bags on board for you. I usually—”
“Honestly, totally fine.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “The prince is very private. He likes as few people on board as possible.”
“Head through that door at the end, then.” Larry looks a little hurt that I’ve spurned his services but still manages a professional smile. “Have a great flight. And enjoy Scotland.”
“Och aye!” I say for some inexplicable reason and add a cheery wave.
Heart in my throat, I stride toward the door and the plane with the orange and brown stripes down the side that holds the man standing between me and the rest of my career.