Chapter 44
Final call.
Emma reached the airport breathless, jumping out of the Uber before it had even fully stopped. It was déjà vu from her bookstore event—except this time, she was on her own.
The sliding doors to the terminal whooshed open, cool air rushing over her. Her whole body thrummed with the bone-deep certainty that she had to find him. That it couldn’t be meant to end like this.
Go to gate.
“Yeah, thanks, I’m on my freaking way!” Emma snapped at the screen, already dashing across the hall. The faintest spark of hope caught in her chest. Not too late. Not yet, at least.
She skidded to a stop at the airline’s service counter, breath caught in her throat. The attendant behind the desk smiled politely. If he noticed the panic vibrating off her, he hid it well.
“The JFK flight,” she panted. “Are there seats left?”
He frowned. “The twelve-five? I’m sorry, ma’am, but you won’t make it. Boarding starts any minute.”
“Fine!” Emma snapped. “Then get me anything departing from that terminal. And fast-lane access.”
His brows rose. “And what destination would you like to travel to?”
“Terminal freaking two.” Her hands flew to her head, stress boiling over. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I need to catch someone before they fly out.”
The man looked at her as if she should be in a straitjacket. “Have you tried their phone?”
Her temples throbbed as she stared at him. She imagined it—Darren’s voice on the line, cool and tired, hanging up before she could get the words out. Not seeing her there. Not knowing how far she was willing to go. And that was if he even picked up the call.
“No, that’s not . . . I need to see him. Please, I—”
“I’m so sorry,” a polite female voice cut in from behind, “but are you Emma Whitehart?”
Emma whirled, exasperation flaring. “Yes, but I’m kind of in the middle of a—”
She blinked. The woman wore a red uniform—flight attendant, maybe. Blonde hair in a sleek bun, rosy cheeks, her polished facade cracked only by the excited recognition in her eyes.
Emma’s eyes swept the woman’s blazer, hope surging. “Can you help me?” she blurted. “I need to get to Terminal Two as fast as possible. Someone I need to reach is about to board for JFK.”
Her eyes widened. “Is it . . . him?”
Emma exhaled shakily. God, her life had gotten weird. She nodded.
The woman checked her watch, focus sharpening. “Matt,” she said, crisp and efficient. “Book her on the two-thirty Chicago flight. Now.”
Emma fumbled for her ID, relief and panic colliding so hard she almost dropped it. Maybe—just maybe . . .
“Thanks,” she breathed when the woman handed her back the cards and a printed ticket. Her gaze dropped to the name tag. “Chloe.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Chloe said, gripping her arm lightly. “Come with me. If there’s the slightest chance, I’ll get you there. But it’s going to be tight.”
Emma sprinted after her. Chloe flashed her badge like a weapon, sweeping them past the snaking security line. The agents at the scanners waved them through without a second look.
Noise slammed into her the second they cleared security. The terminal was bedlam—Comic-Con spillover swallowing every inch of space. Teenagers in graphic tees jammed the walkways, families camped on the floor, and a flash mob of Minions chanted something unintelligible by the food court.
Emma’s panic spiked. She’d never find him in this madness.
Chloe pointed ahead. “Gate 45 is straight down that way. I can call for a courtesy cart, but—”
Emma stared at the stream of bodies, the clogged arteries of the terminal. A cart weaving through this? It would be a crawl.
“Faster to run,” Emma said, already moving. She looked back. “Thank you, Chloe! I’ll put you in the acknowledgments for the sequel.”
Chloe grinned, calling after her, “Go! Go get him, Emma.”
Emma ran into the crush of bodies, weaving past plastic swords, feathered wings, and kids in Spider-Man suits—clinging to her last impossible hope.
That she’d make it in time. That he’d still be there.
That it wasn’t too late to fix what she’d broken.