Chapter 20
ARDEN
I’m basking in the small mercy of a hot shower when Locke walks through the door. I hear him call out for me as I turn the water off and wrap a plush white towel around my body.
My overstuffed duffel bag is already packed and waiting on the bed. Without any details about the trip, I packed everything that fit.
I throw on my most comfortable sweatpants and hoodie. I have no idea how long this flight will be, and wherever we’re going, I want to be comfortable.
Locke’s voice echoes down the hallway as he makes his way to my room. “Arden?”
“I’m almost ready!” I call back.
“Are you dressed?” is all he says before turning the handle and opening the door.
I level him with a flat stare as he walks in and makes himself comfortable on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Well, I’m dressed. Why do I get the feeling that you were hoping I wasn’t?”
He doesn’t laugh or smirk. The corners of his lips don’t even twitch. He’s just looking at me with that unreadable expression I’ve become all too familiar with. I just wait, taking the moment to towel dry my hair.
“Never do that to me again.”
I blink at him. “To you?”
“Yes, to me. Do you even realize what that’s like? To watch you sneak away? Knowing you’re going exactly where I told you not to, just to spite me?”
He’s completely serious. This doesn’t seem like just a control issue. He’s actually hurt?
“I don’t think you understand what this place is actually like. You could have gotten into some deep shit.”
“I don’t think I understood how deranged it actually is. But trust me, after the glimpse I got tonight, I fully believe you.”
I walk over to the bed, my footsteps soft against the carpet, and stop at the foot. I pretend I want to add my makeup bag to the practically overflowing duffel, the zipper straining as I close it back up. But truly, I just want to feel his warmth near me.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he mutters.
“Thanks for coming to get me.” I stare down at him. The way he’s hunched over. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, eyes glued to the floor. He looks exhausted.
He turns his head, and his gaze lifts to mine. “What else would I have done?”
I just stare. “You could have… not come.” I shrug. “No one’s ever come to save me before,” I admit, batting my eyelashes playfully, trying to make light of it. But it’s the honest truth.
His lips finally twitch; there’s a hint of a smile there now. Just enough to let me know he’s no longer angry.
He stands, grabbing my bag and throwing the long strap over his shoulder. “We should go. It’s a long flight to Italy, and we’re on a rigid timeline.”
Italy. I don’t even have a passport in my bag, but somehow Locke makes it sound inevitable. Like I was always going, whether I wanted to or not. I swallow the hundred questions fighting their way up my throat and give him a smile instead.
Despite the shock, Italy sounds amazing. I’ll trust that he has the details worked out.
Minutes later, I’m being shoved into a car. It’s just after 2 a.m., and I desperately want to be sleeping. Instead, we’re being driven to the airport in another blacked-out SUV.
Of course we don’t pull up at a normal airport.
Why would we? We arrive at a sleek building with mirrored windows that looks more like a private club than anything air-travel related.
No signs. No lines. Just a guy in a suit who quickly opens the door and helps me out of the car.
Locke doesn’t say a word as he exits behind me.
The same guy grabs our bags as Locke guides me through the sleek sliding doors with his hand on the small of my back. He’s been doing that a lot.
I’m still processing the fact that I’m about to hop on a plane with a man I was shamelessly flirting with in front of his supermodel ex-girlfriend a few hours ago, who also just helped me escape a party straight out of hell.
Someone tell me how this became my Friday night?
The inside of the terminal, if you can even call it that, has velvet chairs, a small coffee bar, and someone handing me a flute of champagne as I walk in. I still can’t get used to these minor details that are somehow normal in this world.
Before I can get comfortable, or make a cup of coffee, we’re already being ushered onto the tarmac. At least the plane looks normal from the outside. Smaller than other planes I’ve been on, but normal. I walk up the small set of stairs, Locke following behind me, and step in.
I lied. This is anything but normal.
I’m met with a view of wide, cream-colored leather seats, two facing each other on each side of the aisle. There’s a small sitting area with a couch lining the wall and a TV stand across from it. Wood panels conceal another space in the back, but I’m too stunned to wonder what might be behind them.
I sink into one of the plush seats; it’s far more comfortable than any other plane seat I’ve ever been in, and there’s plenty of room to stretch my legs.
Locke chooses the seat directly across from me. I’m still holding my champagne as a woman in a fitted navy uniform sets a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the ledge next to him. She mutters something about takeoff and mentions the length of our flight: eleven hours.
Eleven hours in the sky. With him. With my own thoughts. I’m not sure which is worse.
“Why, exactly, are we suddenly on a plane to Italy?” The words spill out before I have a chance to ponder why he might be keeping that information from me.
His lips spread in a wide grin. “It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise? For me?” I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t like surprises. Can’t you just tell me?”
He chuckles, shaking his head slightly and sipping his fresh glass of whiskey. “Nope, you’ll just have to wait.”
I cross my arms, pouting for a moment before leaning back and downing what’s left of my champagne. Then, I close my eyes, hoping I’ll finally be able to get some sleep after the long night we’ve had.
They don’t stay closed long before I hear his familiar voice.
“Another?” My eyes snap open, and I see Locke standing right in front of me.
“Are you trying to get me drunk already?” I snap back.
He shrugs. “Just trying to make this flight tolerable.”
“For you or for me?”
He doesn’t answer, but his mouth twitches like he’s amused by the question.
“I don’t want to get drunk; I just want to sleep,” I add.
He says nothing in return. Instead, he drops into a crouch, his shoulder brushing my knee as he unlatches a hidden compartment at the base of my seat.
He pulls out a small, plush blanket, shaking it open in front of him. The movement makes me flinch. It’s a small reaction, but he notices and pauses.
I spent years tucking blankets around a woman who didn’t even seem to feel them, checking for a pulse that eventually wasn’t there. I don’t need his version of care. I don’t want anybody looking after me.
Still, as he leans in to drape the cashmere over my lap, his smoky, woodsy scent hits me. Suddenly, I forget I don’t want this. I forget how to breathe.
“Get comfortable,” he mutters, the words sharp in the quiet space, but he doesn’t move. He stays right in front of me, waiting, his gaze unwavering.
I don’t move, just mutter a quiet “thanks” before closing my eyes again.
Then, he slowly picks up his glass and relaxes back into his own seat.