Chapter 9
SETTLING INTO MY window seat, I send a silent prayer into the universe to protect my overly stuffed suitcase from ripping open during the journey across the globe.
This is my first time to England and there’s been some confusion on the weather situation.
I initially filled my suitcase with all things summer-related because, hello, it’s summer over there.
It was only when Hattie pointed out that English summers are vastly different from Australian summers and I should consider packing a couple of jumpers, perhaps a jacket and some pants that I did a panicked last-minute stash of said items and ended up with a case bulging at the seams.
Fighting a yawn, I triple check that my carry on is under the seat in front of me.
The lovely woman behind me offered to help stash the heavy bag into the overhead compartment but I don’t want to be that annoying passenger who keeps asking her row mates to move so she can retrieve yet another item from her bag.
I tap my feet as I watch passengers file into the plane and swallow yet another yawn.
I’ve barely slept this week, I’ve been so stressed about leaving the cafe and frantically trying to finish an assessment for my course, which I’m fairly certain I tanked.
Considering I barely scraped a pass on the assessment before that, I probably should’ve put more time into it but preparing my handover for Felicity took all my focus.
Well, dwelling on a potential bad mark isn’t going to fix anything so I push it out of my mind and watch people take their seats. I share a small smile with a girl whose face is alight with the excitement of jetting off on an adventure.
‘Your dress is cute,’ I say as she settles into the seat beside me and I imagine us chatting throughout the flight, making the hours simply fly by.
She beams at me before whipping out her phone to talk animatedly into the camera.
Looking up at the aisle of people finding their seats, I notice a pair of broad shoulders, snug in a black jumper as they hoist a bag into the overhead compartment. Huh, from behind he almost looks like—I gasp and then splutter out a cough as the air I sucked in chokes me.
No way!
Adam Whittaker is on my flight.
My flight. To London. This is a coincidence, right?
The greatest coincidence on earth but like a coincidence nonetheless because there’s no way in hell he’s joining our holiday.
And even though Mum has his phone number and has no doubt bombarded him with GIFs and whatever else, I can’t imagine he fell for any of her pleas to come along.
There has to be another explanation. One that’s completely reasonable and doesn’t involve Adam Whittaker coming within spitting distance of the Fogertys.
A wave of unease settles over me, making me completely zone out during the safety demonstration and that unnerves me further.
I’m that passenger the flight attendants can always rely on to pay attention.
I even throw in a few nods to show that I’m actively listening.
Today, though, all I can do is shift in my seat and try to spot that head of hair five rows ahead of me.
Or is it six? There’s an extremely tall gentleman two rows ahead who’s partially blocking my view so it could even be seven.
When we finally take off, I keep my eyes trained on the seatbelt sign and try to squash my unease and explain his presence away.
I tell myself that he probably has a book tour.
Or he’s off to find another cafe to write in, another cafe owner to annoy.
Or a sudden urge to join the King’s Guard.
No matter how many potential, or far-fetched, reasons for him being on this plane I come up with, I can’t chase away that feeling. The one that knows why he’s here.
I’m teetering on the edge of anger, digging my nails into my palms.
The seatbelt sign flicks off. I clutch my belt.
I hate confrontation. The raised voices and everything, it’s, ugh, I hate it.
My fingers loosen on the seatbelt. If I go to him now there’s a very good chance that a scene will erupt.
Phones will get whipped out to record us, we’ll be splashed over socials.
Woman loses it at fake boyfriend on a plane when he admits to crashing her family’s holiday.
I huff out a frustrated sigh and shove my headphones on, settling on a movie to help calm me down before I tap that man on the shoulder and (politely) demand to know what he’s doing.
My go-to move for losing myself is Love Actually.
It does absolutely nothing to calm me. Probably because I spend the entire time watching the rows ahead of me for any movement from him and don’t take in Hugh Grant’s dance moves or Emma Thompson’s heartache.
Nor do I proceed to get swept away by the romantic notion that one day someone will run after me to confess their love. Adam is ruining rom-coms for me.
I decide it’s now or never. I squeeze past my row mates with a murmured thanks only to immediately get waylaid by a man who is taking up the entire aisle as he pulls his bag down and rummages through it.
This is why I sacrifice legroom and comfort and stash my bag under my seat. I almost tap the man on the shoulder to suggest under-seat storage when he finally moves out of the way and I stumble past him.
I march ahead. Five rows. He’s not there.
Six. Same deal. Seven. No sign of him. I rub my eyes and check over the rows again.
Did I imagine him? No, I couldn’t have. I mean, sure, we departed at the crack of dawn and I was half-asleep when I boarded but I swear it was him.
I think. Maybe it wasn’t. I turn around and retrace my steps and I spot the empty seat, that shiny laptop.
And, tucked in the seat pocket, the red folder with our itinerary.
He must’ve got up in the one moment I was focused on the movie.
‘Excuse me.’ That deep voice rolls through me, almost knocking me off my feet.
I spin around. ‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘Returning to my seat,’ he says, eyes sliding past my shoulder. ‘Which you’re blocking.’
‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ I snap and then take a shuddering breath. Phones, filming, headlines, I remind myself.
‘Your mum called and begged me to come,’ he says. ‘I didn’t have anything on so…’ he trails off with a shrug of his stupid broad shoulders.
‘So you say no. Like a normal human being would. Because this isn’t a dinner that’ll be over in three hours.
This is a week. With my family. Where we will have to—oof,’ I splutter when someone squeezes behind me and sends me lurching.
Strong hands catch me before I end up sprawled over the row to my left.
Adam’s fingers are firm on my arms. ‘Have to what?’ he prompts and then snatches his hands away like I’m coated in acid.
‘Pretend we can tolerate one another.’ I don’t dare say that we will need to do more than that because, again, I don’t want to cause a scene.
But surely he knows that this will be nothing like the dinner with my parents.
We’re going to have to hold hands and hug and—oh god—kiss.
I’m an affectionate person. In addition to food, physical touch is my love language.
My family knows that, and this man can’t even touch my arms for more than two seconds.
This is going to unravel fast.
‘You can’t come,’ I blurt out, panic lacing my words.
‘We’re in the air, Sabrina, and neither one of us has the power to order a plane to turn around.’
‘Well,’ I start, my gaze darting around us, searching. For what, I’m not sure. A parachute to toss at him? ‘You can get a flight home at our stopover.’ I almost pat myself on the back.
‘Are you going to pay for that?’
I cross my arms over my chest. ‘Well, find a hotel when we get to London and stay there.’
He sighs with a slight shake of his head. ‘Your mum’s expecting me. Now, excuse me, I have work to do.’
He squeezes past me, his chest pressing into mine and I hold my breath so I don’t dare breathe him in. Even thousands of feet in the air, surrounded by the cloying smells of aeroplane food, a tease of that scent I find so annoyingly intoxicating sweeps over me.
‘This isn’t over,’ I say and then I clamp my lips together when half a dozen heads whip my way.
One way or another, I am not allowing him to join us.