Chapter 5
Chapter Five
JEMMA
Thursday evening creeps up faster than I expected.
I double and triple-check my quick packing job, ensuring I’ve got all my essentials: my passport, a few carefully chosen outfits that I can mix and match to save space, and, of course, Gretchen’s red dress that I can’t wait to wear.
She was right; it does look great on me.
Look out, Paris, here I come!
Gretchen pulls up outside my apartment in Suzy’s little blue Volkswagen Bug.
Its paint is slightly more rusted than I remember, but it has a lot of character, just like Suzy.
Gretchen’s ride isn’t much nicer—just less rust and barely hanging on for dear life.
But really, who needs a car in the city?
Public transportation works just fine. Well, except when you’re hauling a bunch of luggage to the airport, and you want your best friend by your side until the very last minute, so you don’t chicken out. Or maybe that’s just me.
“Where’s Suzy?” I ask, shoving my suitcase and carry-on into the tiny back seat. “I thought maybe she’d come keep you company for the late drive home.”
“Nah, work emergency. A crazy huge order was placed last minute for an early pickup tomorrow, and the staff couldn’t handle it. So, Suzy to the rescue, as usual.” Gretchen tosses her hand in the air as she checks her mirror, pulling into traffic.
Suzy is a pastry chef at one of the cutest little bakeries down the street from Whimsies.
Just thinking of the place makes my mouth water.
But then I quickly remember that in less than a day I’ll be in a city known for having some of the best pastries in the world.
I close my eyes, envisioning myself biting into a buttery croissant, the flaky layers melting in my mouth.
I’m lost in buttery bliss, when suddenly my body pitches forward as Gretchen slams on the brakes, yanking me away from my delicious daydream.
My eyes whip open to a gridlocked expressway.
Great. Just what we need.
Thanks to Suzy’s tiny car, Gretchen does a good job inching into a lane, but we’re barely crawling forward, and the minutes are ticking away. I can already picture myself stuck behind a long line at check-in and missing my flight. This can’t be happening.
I keep glancing at the clock, silently pleading with the traffic to part.
My heart plunges into my stomach.
“Maybe this flight wasn’t meant to be,” I whisper. “Maybe this is a sign.”
“Oh, heck no. I’m getting you to that airport,” Gretchen declares, slamming down on the horn.
She expertly weaves through a sea of SUVs and semi-trucks. One moment we’re parting two lanes, and the next, she’s trucking down the gravelly shoulder. This must be what it’s like driving an emergency vehicle. Part of me is hanging on for dear life, while the other part is grinning like a lunatic.
We might make it after all.
Gretchen is completely unfazed by the whirlwind of chaos she’s creating. We speed past an elderly woman who can barely see over the steering wheel; her face contorts with disdain as she raises her middle finger at us.
“I think you’re making some new friends!” I joke.
“If they only knew the stakes here, they would totally understand,” she replies with such conviction that it makes me think she truly believes that.
However, I’ll never give people that kind of credit—especially New Yorkers. Out here, it’s every person for themselves.
Without missing a beat, she rolls down her window and shouts, “Merry Christmas!” while waving energetically.
I can’t help but burst into laughter. I love this girl! I’m so grateful we met at Foster & Sons, even if they did kick me to the curb just days ago.
Finally, the traffic eases up, and we hit a steady pace.
With a victorious grin, Gretchen cranks up the music, turning the car into our own little version of carpool karaoke.
I use everything I can find as a microphone—a phone, my hand, a pen—belting out every song that plays.
It’s a fun distraction, but I keep my eyes fixed on the clock ticking away.
When we take the airport exit, I feel a wave of relief, but I know I still need everything to align perfectly to make it on time.
“Thanks again for the ride. I’m pretty darn impressed with your mad racecar skills. I don’t think an Uber driver or a cabbie could have pulled off what you did back there. I’m so glad I asked you,” I say as the car comes to a screeching halt in front of a busy terminal.
Gretchen whirls around in her seat and dramatically grabs my hands. I swear I can feel her energy vibrating between us. “Jemma, I wish you the most magical Christmas of your life. Don’t overthink things, and most importantly, have fun.” Her words tumble out in a quick, jumbled string.
“You’re so dramatic, but seriously, thank you.
” I swing my door open and begin to wrestle my luggage from the back seat.
“I’ll text you once I settle in. I hope you and Suzy have a wonderful Christmas too.
May Santa bring you everything you wish for—maybe even an engagement ring,” I tease, flashing her my ring finger.
A slow smile spreads across my friend’s face, and with that, I whip around, quickly locating the closest entryway.
“Don’t forget to buy a SIM card at the airport!” Gretchen calls after me, her voice cutting through the sound of cab drivers impatiently honking their horns.
Cell service.
Her words nearly knock the wind out of me.
How could I have forgotten to consider how my phone will work once I’m there?
Thank goodness for Gretchen—the world’s best friend—always looking out for me.
What would I do without her? I should have made a to-do list or did a bit more research, but there’s no time to overthink things now. I’ve got a plane to catch.
I burst through the revolving doors, my eyes darting to the overhead signs pointing me toward my airline’s counter.
Alright, Jemma, you can freaking do this.
I might need a small miracle, but I’ll make this flight.
I dash through the airport, my suitcase bouncing behind me as I race to the check-in counter. Thankfully, the line is short. Once it’s my turn, I hurl my luggage onto the scale and proceed with all the necessary steps to finally get my coveted ticket to Paris.
Next, I make a beeline for TSA, where the security line feels like an Olympic event—shoes off, laptop out, arms raised for the invasive body scanner.
Ugh. I always hate this part.
I clumsily gather my belongings, slipping back into my shoes as I juggle my boarding pass, random receipts from dropping off my luggage, and my passport. Then, I sprint toward my gate on the other side of the airport.
I’m panting and nearly out of breath as I keep checking the signs above me, making sure I’m heading in the right direction. I’m searching for Gate B52, but I’m only at B19. I better pick up my pace, or I’m not going to make it.
I look up again, noticing I need to take a left. As I pivot to turn down the long corridor, out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall guy decked out in what can only be described as an elf costume—green tunic, pointed hat, the whole nine yards—racing toward me.
I hardly have time to react. Just as I swing to avoid colliding with him, I swear I see a twinkle in his eye, and then bam—I crash right into another man instead. Our plane tickets and papers fly across the busy terminal floor, scattering like confetti.
“Eh. Watch where you’re going!” the man snaps, his accent thick and sharp.
I’m utterly mortified.
Avoiding eye contact, we both crouch down to gather the scattered papers. As I reach for the last item, fate deals me another blow. We bump heads, adding a fresh layer of embarrassment to an already awkward situation. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
When I finally muster the courage to stand, I find him scowling at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Seriously, dude, are those contact lenses? No one has eyes that frosty blue.
His irrefutable handsomeness momentarily makes my breath hitch.
“I—I’m so sorry,” I stutter, struggling to tear my gaze away from the gorgeous creature whose dark brown hair is falling in waves, tousled in that sexy, effortless kind of way.
The kind that makes you want to reach out and rake your fingers through it.
But, of course, I fight the urge, because that would be weird, right?
His strong jaw is freshly shaven, yet tightly clenched, presumably out of irritation with me for crashing into him.
My eyes drift downward to his attire—dark blue denim paired with a white button-up shirt and a long black coat. Simple but sexy.
He loudly clears his throat, catching me in the act. Busted.
His gaze shifts to the ticket clutched in his hand, “Jemma, with a J. This must be yours,” he says, almost painfully as he hands some items back to me.
I quickly cram them into my carry-on.
“And you must be”—I glance down at the ticket I picked up—“Luca.”
He snatches it from my hand. “I can’t miss my flight,” he grumbles.
Okay, undeniably sexy, but incredibly rude.
Flustered, I glance around. “This is all the elf man’s fault,” I insist, pointing down the long hallway.
He follows my gesture, his eyebrows shooting up in curiosity. “Elf man?”
“He was right there,” I protest, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. “There was a man dressed like an elf.”
He taps his head and smirks. “Maybe we bumped heads harder than you think.”
I part my mouth, ready to apologize again, but he turns away, shaking his head as if I’m the craziest person he’s ever met.
“Elf man,” I mutter under my breath, wondering if I’m losing my mind.