Chapter 45
Out of breath. Out of time. Out of hope? Jury’s still out.
Darren was nowhere.
Panic blurred her vision. What if he was already on the plane? Should she text him that she was there? Beg a stranger to pass a message? Her brain spun through half-formed plans, none of them good.
She paced the edge of the line, her attention so scattered she almost tripped over someone’s suitcase.
Nothing.
Another lap around the gate. Every dark-haired man looked like him for half a second. Every British voice made her stiffen.
A traitorous thought pressed at the edges of her mind. She shoved it back, refusing to let it in—but it broke through, anyway.
The realization hit her in a single clean blow.
He wasn’t here.
She forced herself to slow, exhaling hard. Her knees wobbled just slightly.
All that courage she’d mustered—every cell in her body telling her she was finally doing the right thing—and she’d still missed him. The shock drained the blood from her face, leaving her pale and reeling.
On some level, she’d truly believed it would work. That the world would reward her for taking the leap, for listening to her heart for once.
But the world didn’t work like that, did it? No perfect symmetry. No last-minute miracles. For once in her life, she’d tried her best to live for real—but she’d been too late.
At least the stories would still be there for her.
She just wasn’t sure that would feel like enough anymore.
Time was up. She turned to leave, scanning the travelers one last time as she moved past the gate.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t see Chloe on her way back. The thought of meeting the kind woman’s eyes, of admitting her defeat, was unbearable. She blinked hard, fighting the burn behind her eyes.
She’d tried. She’d failed. Simple as that.
Feet heavy, she started walking back the way she came. There was nothing to hurry back to. Nothing left but admitting to Leah that she’d been too late, and facing her pity. Her chest ached at the thought. She lowered her head, shielding her face from view.
Through the shifting maze of legs and luggage, her eyes snagged on a splash of fabric. A floor-length dress with enormous pink flowers. Her gaze shot up, finding a familiar blonde ponytail.
Sienna.
Emma stumbled forward, pulse surging.
And then she saw him.
Darren stood by the desk, backpack slung over one shoulder, ticket and passport in hand. He hadn’t noticed her.
For one suspended beat, she just stared. He was real. He was here.
Then reality slammed back into her, her brain catching up—he was just about to step through boarding.
“Darren!”
Her voice cracked through the noise, louder than she’d meant. Heads turned. Whispers started rippling. And inevitably, within seconds, phones lifted.
He turned around.
His eyes found hers, and something locked into place inside her. Relief made her shoulders sag, the roar of the terminal fading to static.
“Hi,” Emma breathed, even though he was too far away to hear. Maybe she imagined it, but the crowd seemed to part between them.
Darren said something to Sienna, handed her his backpack, and stepped out of the line. He came toward her, his expression taut and guarded.
“Emma. What on earth are you doing here?”
“I just . . .” Her voice nearly failed. She hadn’t thought this part through, which was very un-Emma of her. “I needed to see you. I went to the Con, but you weren’t . . . Indira said you’d left.”
His face stayed unreadable, carefully blank. Cameras surrounded them now, people staring openly.
The realization hit her like a bucket of cold water. She’d been so focused on finding him that she’d almost forgotten about this part—that he might still walk away, leaving her humiliated and alone in front of strangers.
Fear thundered through her veins, dizzying her, but she didn’t move. She’d spent so much of her life worrying about how things looked. About saying too much. Being too much.
Not this time.
Not when she’d finally stopped hiding from what she wanted.
“I’m sorry I doubted you.”
Her throat burned. Whether from nerves or from running, she couldn’t tell. She kept her voice low, meant for him alone—but not so low she tried to hide from the cameras. They didn’t matter. Only he did.
“I shouldn’t have,” she went on. “Deep down, I knew it was real. I just . . . got scared. Like I always do. Expecting the worst, sabotaging things so nothing can hurt me. And I told myself it was being smart, but it wasn’t. It was cowardice.”
She drew a shaky breath, bracing herself. “I hurt you, Darren. And I’m really sorry for that.”
Something shifted in his eyes.
“I quit my job too, by the way,” she added, a little louder. “I’m done. I’ll leave things in order, but I’m choosing the life I want. Starting now.”
His brow lifted a fraction. “You really quit your job?”
She shrugged, glancing helplessly at the cameras. “Well . . . I’m assuming this will go viral, so I guess I kind of handed in my notice just now.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“And I’m sorry you don’t want to play Lucen,” she pressed on. “I respect the decision, of course. I just hope it wasn’t because of me.”
His face hardened again. “If this is about the casting, my answer is still no. But for the record, it wasn’t about you. And it’s still a great character.” He shrugged lightly. “I’m just sorry you came all this way for a no.”
The words hit like a blow—cool, professional. As if nothing else had ever existed between them.
“Darren,” Sienna called. The screen above her had flipped from Boarding to Final call. Darren turned slightly, signaling this was goodbye.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut, every fear, every old instinct screaming at her to be quiet, to back away.
“And I’d very much like to have those tacos with you.”
Her voice rang out firm and clear.
She opened her eyes again. Darren had stilled, his back to her.
She stepped closer, breath unsteady. “If it’s not too late. Because I like you, Darren Cole. Not because I based Lucen on you—though I did. And not because you’re a gorgeous, famous actor I fell in love with from a distance. Because you’re you.”
He looked over his shoulder. A slow smile tugged at his mouth.
“So you did base him on me after all?”
Emma’s cheeks flamed. She was trembling from adrenaline, every muscle coiled tight—and he was teasing?
“Okay. You know what, never mind,” she said, voice thick. “At least I had the guts to say something real for once.”
She turned, humiliation flooding her, the cameras scorching her from every angle. This is how they’ll remember me, she thought bitterly. A mortifying crash-and-burn in Terminal Two.
But then—
A firm hand closed around her arm.
“Oh no, you don’t.”
She froze, looking back. Darren’s fingers slid down to circle her wrist, warm and unwavering. His eyes weren’t cold anymore. They gleamed with that dark intensity she knew all too well—the same look that had always left her breathless, even from a screen.
“You think you get to drop that and walk away? After chasing me down in a bloody airport?” His voice was low, rough, threaded with that heat she thought she’d lost.
“You’re the writer, Emma.” He moved closer. “You should know that would’ve been a terrible ending.”
Her pulse pounded. “So what’s the ending then?” she whispered.
Darren didn’t answer.
He let go of her wrist and cupped her jaw. Tilted her face up. For a moment, his gaze was just holding hers, the world narrowing.
And then he kissed her.
Right there in the middle of the gate. Gasps, cheers, even applause erupted around them.
Emma didn’t care about any of it—not them, not the cameras. He was here, within reach. Hers to touch.
She kissed him back, fierce with everything she thought she’d lost. Her fingers curled in his hair, every part of her softening and sparking at once.
They finally pulled apart, breathless. Darren caressed her cheek with his thumb.
“I have no idea what the ending is,” he murmured. “But that was the beginning.”
A soft, relieved breath escaped her as she rested her forehead against his chest. “Nice line, Cole.”
He kissed the crown of her head, his voice vibrating against her hair. “You’re very sweaty.”
That pulled a giddy laugh from her. “I basically ran an airport half-marathon to get here in time. With a Pikachu obstacle course.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through him. “Worth it?”
Emma tipped her head back, meeting his eyes. Still velvet dark, still too much, still everything. Her lungs ached, her legs trembled—but her heart felt steady. Certain.
“I don’t know. Kiss me again, and I’ll think about it?”
He did. And it was.
Phones and voices still crowded them, but for once she didn’t shrink away. Didn’t hide. She let them see her—let him see her—the way she’d been terrified of for so long.
“Darren,” Sienna called dryly, alone at the gate desk with a visibly stressed agent. “Am I right to assume I should book you another flight home?”
He grinned. “Have a good flight, Sienna. Call me when you land.”
She tossed him his backpack, shaking her head as she turned her back to board.
“She’s not as scary as Leah,” Emma said under her breath, watching Sienna’s blonde ponytail whip out of sight, “but she’s getting there.”
Darren smiled, slow and deliberate, making her legs go a little weak. “Well. No handlers to bother us now. How about we finally get you those tacos?”
A sense of pure joy surged inside her, bright and dizzying. She nodded.
They started walking back. No rush this time, no pressure. Emma leaned her head against his shoulder as he laced their fingers together.
“I can’t believe you pulled this off in an airport,” he muttered. “I feel like that kid in Love, Actually.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Emma said, relaxing into him as the adrenaline finally dissipated. “You’re not nearly as cute.”
He huffed dramatically. “Watch it, Whitehart, or I’ll take you back to the Horridor.”
Emma answered with a playful punch to his arm. Then she let out a slow breath, half-laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. “So, who do you think will kill me first for this—Miranda or the Netflix people?”
Darren let out an amused breath, thumb brushing her knuckles.
“Neither. That”—he nodded toward the crowd still buzzing behind them—“didn’t read like a PR stunt. It read like a story people will root for. And do you know who loves a good story?”
She lifted her head, looking up at him. “Everyone?”
“Well, I was going to say publishers and studio execs,” he said, cocking his head. Then he gently ran a hand through her hair. “But yeah. Everyone.”
She just smiled, settling back against him. Felt the softness of his sweater under her cheek, the solid warmth of his body beneath. Breathed in the scent of him, faint cologne and something deeper, more human, proving he was really there.
This wasn’t safe. It wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And for Emma Whitehart, that was the only story worth writing.