Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Wind whips across the rooftop helipad, tugging at my hair as Angela completes her preflight checks.
She’s traded her usual charcoal suit for an olive-green flight suit from her RAF days, her hair pulled into a severe bun beneath mirrored aviators.
Sato-san is already buckled into the copilot’s seat, looking remarkably unfazed.
Leon slides in beside me, adjusting his seat belt. “Well,” he murmurs, “this beats the Tube.”
I manage a small, tight smile.
Angela snaps her checklist shut. “All right, Your Highness,” she says, her voice crisp through the comms. “We’re clear for takeoff. Headsets on, please. It’s about to get loud.”
The rotors begin their rhythmic thump, vibrating through the floor and into my bones. “Is the landing sorted?” I ask, raising my voice over the increasing whine of the engine.
“Arranged and confirmed.” Angela nods. “We have permission to land on the village cricket green bordering the property. It’s flat, open, and most importantly, discreet. We’ll be wheels down in about forty-five minutes, assuming the wind behaves.”
Forty-five minutes. My pulse flutters. Forty-five minutes until Devon. Until Theo. Until I find out if showing up is an act of bravery or a catastrophic mistake.
Leon taps my shoulder, grounding me. “You’ve faced worse. You stood your ground against Theo on your first day. You looked Cuthbert Harris in the eye and told him no. Your spine is made of titanium, kiddo. You’ve got this.”
“Maybe,” I breathe, tightening my harness until it bites into my shoulders, “but this feels scarier.”
“Cleared for departure,” Angela announces.
The helicopter rises, tilting forward as London begins to shrink. We soar above the skyline, leaving behind the snarled traffic and the press vans still circling Excelsior HQ.
“It’s so peaceful up here,” Leon says, staring out the window.
“That’s what flying does,” Angela tells him. “It gives you perspective.”
From this height, the distance between London and Devon doesn’t seem far at all. Just a quilt of green fields stitched together with hedgerows. Tiny villages tucked into folds of the landscape. Rivers flashing silver in the sun.
I rest my forehead against the cool glass. Somewhere down there, on those winding coastal roads, Theo is driving. Is he angry? Is he relieved to be away? What am I going to say when I see him?
I’m sorry feels too small. I love you feels too big. I’m here feels too much like a promise he might not be ready for. Maybe showing up is the only sentence that matters.
“Five minutes out,” Angela’s voice crackles out, her fingers dancing across the instrument panel. “Hold tight. We’re heading for the lower field.”
This is it. Go time.
“The farmhouse is just across the lane,” Leon says, pointing toward a cluster of stone buildings nestled near a copse of oaks.
I blink at him. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs, a nostalgic look crossing his face. “I’ve been here before. Long story involving Theo, a broken-down car, and a very long walk. I’ll tell you later.”
The ground rushes up to meet us. “Bracing for landing,” Angela calls out.
The helicopter hovers for a heartbeat before touching down in a sloping field, the skids settling into wildflowers and tall grass.
Leon places a steadying hand on my forearm. “You ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good,” he says, giving my arm a squeeze. “It means you’re doing this for the right reasons.”
Angela slides the cabin door open. A gust of cool, salt-tinged air rushes in, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and the distant, rhythmic bleating of sheep. Sato-san is out first, helping me step down onto the soft ground. My boots sink slightly into the Devon soil.
Across the narrow lane is the farmhouse Theo grew up in.
It’s a quintessential English cottage built from cool gray stone.
Weathered green shutters flank the windows on both floors.
Ivy and pale-pink climbing roses spill across the porch as if they’ve claimed it for themselves.
By the door, there’s a neat row of Wellington boots.
As I walk across the gravel, I see the curtains shift, and the front door opens with a soft creak. Theo’s nan steps onto the porch. She’s small, maybe just a touch over five feet, but she carries herself with the same kind of authority as her grandson.
Her silver hair is swept into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. A few wisps frame a face lined with some laugh-worn creases. Her eyes are a warm hazel with flecks of green. Flour dusts the front of her pale-blue apron, and she holds a tea towel in one hand. “You must be Kaori,” she says.
“I am, ma’am,” I manage, startled she knows me at all.
Nan’s mouth curves fondly. “You made good time.” She glances at the helicopter behind us and lifts a brow. “I didn’t expect you to arrive in that.”
She steps down off the porch with slow, steady movements. “My grandson arrived about fifteen minutes ago. He’s in the summer house. Tools, sawdust, and tinkering with that silly motorbike of his have always soothed him better than tea.”
She turns toward Leon, Angela, and Sato-san. “Welcome back, Leon, and . . .”
“I am Kenta Sato,” my security officer says, bowing crisply.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Angela, ma’am,” Alice’s officer adds with a polite nod.
“Well, then,” Nan says, gesturing toward the house. “You three come in and take a load off. I’ve just finished a sponge cake and the kettle’s on.”
Leon shoots me a final look of encouragement before following her inside.
Sato-san, however, lingers. “Your Highness,” he says quietly, his eyes already scanning the perimeter. “It is my duty to remain with you.”
“I know,” I reply gently. “But I’m just going to the garden. You’ll still be able to see me from the kitchen window.”
He glances toward the house, already mapping sightlines, exits, and angles.
“I have my panic button,” I add, touching the inside of my coat. “If I need you, I’ll use it.”
A beat passes. Then he inclines his head. “Very well, ma’am. I will remain inside with a clear line of sight.” He follows the others into the house, taking a position near the window overlooking the back garden.
“Here goes nothing.” I follow the stone path, my stomach knotting tighter with every step. I push open a wrought-iron gate that groans softly on its hinges. Beyond it sits the summer house.
The door is wide open, and AC/DC’s “T.N.T.” is blasting loud enough to make the windowpanes rattle. There’s a sharp, acrid scent of burned flux and hot metal. Theo’s working. That’s a good sign.
I stop just shy of the door frame. Inside, Theo is hunched over a workbench, fully absorbed in the exposed engine block of a disassembled motorbike.
His hair is a mess, shoved back by grease-streaked fingers.
His dress shirt is ruined, oil-stained, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
An angry red scrape runs along his forearm.
I knock loudly on the wooden frame, but the music drowns it out. He doesn’t even look up. I step into the doorway, and the sight of my shadow causes Theo to jerk upright, startled. He flips off the soldering iron and lunges for the volume dial in one fluid motion.
“Nan, you know better than to sneak up on me like that,” he mutters, his back still to me as he wipes his hands on a grimy rag. “I told you, I’m fine. I just need a minute to—”
He goes still as he finally turns. The rag slips slightly in his hand before he tightens his grip. His eyes open wide. “Kaori,” he whispers.
I stand in the doorway, suddenly unsure where to put my hands, my feet, my heart.
“Hi.” I give a small, awkward wave. “I . . . I wanted to check on you.” My voice wobbles despite my best efforts to keep it level.
“Your grandmother said you were back here and . . .” The rest of the sentence dies on my lips.
There’s no way to finish it without feeling like I’m trespassing on his sanctuary.
Theo swallows hard and looks away, bracing one hand against the workbench. His shoulders tense. It’s the familiar reflex to shut down, to retreat inward.
I take the hint and back up a step. “I’m sorry.” I turn to leave, but in my haste, my boot catches on a raised bit of gravel. I stumble, my arms shooting out to steady myself.
Theo drops his rag, and a wrench clatters to the floor. He crosses the space in three quick, frantic strides, his hands closing around my upper arms to steady me. The contact sends a warm, electric current straight through my system.
“Careful,” he murmurs. His voice is low and rough. Despite the grease on his hands and the motor oil in the air, I still catch that familiar scent of cedar and something warm and clean beneath it.
I hadn’t realized until this second how much I’ve been starving for his touch even though it’s only been about twenty-four hours.
I don’t want him to let go. I wish I could just hit pause and stay here in his arms where there are no headlines, Mr. Harris, or any other problems to worry about.
But that isn’t my call. It’s Theo’s. He asked for space, and the least I can do is respect that.
He releases me a moment later and steps back, dragging both hands through his hair and leaving dark grease streaks across his forehead. “You shouldn’t have come all this way,” he says staring at me as if he’s trying to confirm I’m not an apparition.
“I had to.” I choose my next words carefully. “You had so much dumped on you. I was worried. Especially when I didn’t hear from you.”
“I’m sorry. My mobile . . . I think it was crushed in the lobby, or my father’s security took it. I didn’t realize until I was driving here that I was cut off from everyone.” He lets out a short, humorless breath.