CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LINA
I still don’t know where we’re going. We’ve only been flying for about forty-five minutes, which means we haven’t gone that far. But I haven’t been allowed to look out the window, and Grant had taken my phone the second we stepped onto the jet.
“I hope you know I don’t carry my passport in my purse,” I tell him, arms crossed as I turn to face him.
Grant feigns shock. “Seriously?”
“I know we’re not leaving the country, asshole. Just tell me where we’re going.”
“We’ll be landing any minute. Just wait.”
So I wait. And wait. And wait. Until I feel the wheels hit the ground, and I immediately reach for the window shade.
Grant beats me to it, keeping it tightly shut with a smug grin. “Patience, Lina.”
“Why are you being so secretive?” I yank my hand back.
He smirks, clearly entertained. “You’ll see.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
The plane rolls to a stop. We’re finally here—wherever here is.
Grant stands and holds out his hand. “Come on.”
I freeze, knowing this is too friendly to be doing with him, but his hand extends even further, closing around mine with a gentle firmness.
I’m expecting to step out into the cold, but when we take the first step off the jet, I can tell it’s not as cold as Boston.
The wind is still biting, and there’s a light dusting of snow covering the ground.
The small private airport is quiet, surrounded by woods, with a few old-fashioned lampposts casting a soft golden glow across the snow-dusted tarmac.
“I still feel like I’m being kidnapped,” I mutter as we walk toward a black SUV parked just off the runway, where a man in a tailored suit is holding the back door open.
“You came willingly.” Grant’s arm slips around me, pulling me closer to shield me from the wind.
“This is straight out of a Hallmark Christmas movie,” I whisper as we reach the SUV. “Are you secretly a prince or something?”
“You really think I’d be able to keep something like that a secret?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re you , Grant. You love secrets.”
He helps me into the car, then slides in beside me. The door closes, and the warm interior makes me sigh with relief. It smells faintly of pine and something sweet—like cinnamon or cloves.
“Can you tell me where we are now ?” I ask, turning toward him.
“You’ll know soon,” he responds. “It’s pretty unmistakable.”
I turn toward the window as we drive through a stretch of quiet road, the forest giving way to winding streets lined with colonial-style houses lit up with Christmas decorations.
Twinkle lights wrap around white fences, wreaths hang from every door, and the occasional inn or bakery glows invitingly.
It’s peaceful. Picturesque. I feel like I’ve been dropped inside a snow globe.
As the car hums through the narrow streets, a light snow begins to fall. It hits the windows gently, the soft patter hypnotizing me. I feel my eyelids grow heavy, my head tilting toward the cold glass.
“Are you falling asleep?” Grant murmurs.
I let out a quiet groan.
“Because I’m not carrying you in,” he teases, though his voice is warm.
The thought of Grant’s arms around me—warm, protective, close—makes my stomach twist. Not in a gross way. In a terrifying, butterflies-in-my-stomach kind of way.
And I know he would carry me if I asked him to.
A light nudge at my shoulder draws my attention. “Look,” he says quietly.
Through the windshield, I see it: a large, white house at the end of a cobblestone driveway. It has a wraparound porch strung with warm white lights and Adirondack chairs sitting side-by-side. A Christmas tree glows from the huge front window. There’s a wooden sign at the gate that reads:
THE ATLANTIS
I blink. “Wait… this is it?”
“We made it!” Grant smiles, getting out of the car and rounding the side to help me out. “Welcome to the Vineyard.”
“ Martha’s Vineyard?” I stare at him, stunned. “We’re in Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Yeah,” he says as he grabs our bags from the back. “This was my mom’s favorite place in the world. After she died, my dad kept the house.”
This is the most Grant has ever told me about his mom, and just by looking at this house, I want to know everything about her.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, looking up at the ivy-covered stone and snow-dusted windows.
Grant pushes open the heavy front door, revealing a warm foyer lit by a fire burning in the living room. The ceilings stretch high, and a staircase curves elegantly upward. It’s cozy but grand. Like stepping into a Monet painting.
“Is this place seriously called The Atlantis?” I’d believe it.
“That’s what we call it. My mom used to say the Vineyard felt like its own hidden world. Quiet, magical, like Atlantis.”
I glance up the staircase, then back at him. “This place is incredible.”
He smirks, looking around with the same admiration, as if flashes of his mother are scattered throughout the place. “If I remember right, bedrooms are upstairs.”
“You’re so smug,” I mutter as I climb after him.
“Not the time to be hating me when you’re staying in my family’s Christmas house, pretty girl.”
“Wait—this is your family’s ?”
“I told you that, ” he reminds me. “It’s mine now. My dad barely uses it. We used to come every year—those are the memories that stuck. Most of the time everyone comes up for the anniversary of her death, but it’s usually a last-minute decision.”
He leads me down the hallway. I was expecting to find some type of fancy paintings that cost way too much to be littering the house, but it’s quite the opposite. Family pictures put into gorgeous golden frames make it feel like a home instead of a hotel. I stop in front of one in particular.
A lot of the pictures had Grant’s mother in them, but this one looked older. His mother looked young, but by the looks of the other pictures, she still managed to look gorgeously young for the rest of her life.
The only sign that this picture wasn’t taken soon before her death was the little boy sitting on her lap.
Grant. The two of them sat on the dock of what I would assume to be this lake house.
She was in a beautiful yellow sundress, and Grant was shirtless with swim trunks and wet hair.
He was looking admiringly up at her, and she was smiling brightly down at him.
I don’t even realize how long I’ve been stopped at the wall, staring at the picture, until I feel Grant appear behind me, making me jump.
“She always loved the lake house,” he says, looking at the photo I’m holding.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, tracing the frame.
“Yeah,” he replies quickly. “Yeah, she really was.”
“You look like her.”
“So I’ve been told.” It seems like he tries to smile, but it looks painful. He grabs my wrist momentarily. “C’mon, pretty girl.”
I break my gaze away from the frame, backing up so I can follow Grant down the hallway.
“This is your room.” He opens the door at the very end of the hall before pointing toward another door across from the bed. “And that’s a bathroom.”
Bowing sarcastically, I say, “Thank you, kind sir.”
He laughs. “I don’t think the princess is typically the one who bows.”
“You’re right.” I wave him on. “Go ahead, then.”
He doesn’t respond—just grabs my bag and keeps walking.
But I don’t miss the way his smile lingers.