Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
CAMERON
Monday
London, England
I walk through the sliding doors into fresh air, my passport still in my hand.
The busy comings and goings of the airport surround me like static.
Blinking in the sunlight, I scan the curbside instinctively.
There’s people unloading and loading luggage into waiting cars and taxi cabs, a sea of luggage trolleys, and then I see him.
Like a scene out of a movie, Gregg leans casually against a dark blue BMW, an ankle is crossed over the other, and the sunlight glints off the polished hood of the car.
He looks so effortless that he somehow catches me off guard.
A pink polo, perfectly fitted, tucked into khakis that are pressed intentionally without trying too hard.
Modern but so classic, like he belongs anywhere he stands.
In his hand he holds a small bouquet of flowers. Not grand or showy, but so thoughtful.
For a second, I just watch him, watch as his head lifts slightly as he scouts the flowing stream of passengers that move out of the terminal past me.
He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and squints toward the terminal doors, and his eyes find mine.
The smile that spreads across his face is immediate and unguarded, and he pushes off the car and lifts the bouquet in an awkward yet confident gesture that makes my heart flutter.
All the chaos falls away, the jet lag barely registers, and it’s just us.
I rush toward him, my bag rattling behind me as it trails across the pavement.
Gregg laughs as I crash into him, sliding my arms around his shoulders. He hugs me back without any hesitation, and the scent of cedar and linen fills my senses.
“Good morning, darling,” he says, voice near my ear.
“Good morning to you,” I reply, smiling into his shoulder.
He pulls back enough to check that I’m actually there, and presses a brief, affectionate kiss to my cheek. His face is smooth, freshly shaved, and the softness catches me off guard in the best way.
“Welcome back to London,” he announces. “I hope your flight wasn’t too dreadful.”
“I’ve had worse.” I chuckle. “A middle seat in Economy is still far better than the jumpseat. But I’d have sat in the cargo hold to see you again.”
“That’s good to know. No excuses for when the flight is full.” He holds out the flowers and grins. “For you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” he states plainly.
And that was enough for me. He reaches for my suitcase before I can protest, lifts it easily, and places it in the back of the car.
“Let me—” he begins, moving quickly toward the passenger side and reaching for the handle. But American muscle memory kicks in on my part, and I’d already opened the driver’s door. We both freeze.
Gregg blinks and lets out a genuine laugh. “Ah, right. America. Will you be driving us today?”
“Sorry.” I wince, only a tiny bit embarrassed. “That will take some getting used to.”
“Do you often steal cars abroad?”
“Ha. Ha. Only very nice ones,” I answer back as I cross around the car to him. “And only when the owner is so handsome.”
He smiles dangerously and opens the car door for me. “Well, I’ll let it slide. Only this once.”
I raise my hands in surrender, and with one of his hands resting lightly at the small of my back, I slide into the seat. I watch him walk to the other side of the car, the flowers resting in my lap, jet lag easing away.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks, shutting his door and putting the car into gear, easing forward into steady traffic leaving the airport.
“Oh nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
He drives with effortless grace, his long fingers in a relaxed grip on the wheel.
He shifts gears so easily, the change barely registers in seamless transitions, like the car is an extension of him.
No matter how long it was before he had to shift up or down, his left hand always found its way back to my leg in the passenger seat.
“You’re good at that,” I observe, nodding to the center console.
“At driving?” he asks, amused.
“I mean like, driving stick,” I clarify.
“Ah I see. I must admit it feels odd to me driving a car with automatic transmission.”
“That’s all I know.”
“You never learned how to drive a manual?” He smiles wickedly at me.
“Well, I understand the concept,” I explain. “But I’m left-handed, so I’m not sure how well I could execute it.”
“Luckily for you, that's the hand you need if you are driving here.” He winks at me. “Here, give me your hand. I’ll show you.” His hand covers mine and guides it to the gearstick.
“Oh my god.” My breath catches. “Please don’t make me kill us.”
“Relax, Cam.” His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. “You won’t wreck us. Now, I know in this case it's your right hand, so just pretend you're back home.”
“Okay.”
“So I need to shift down since the traffic is slowing, so… we’ll go third gear to… second.”
He engages the clutch and guides my hand, and then shifts from third to second, the motion smooth. “Okay, now let’s go from second to third, feel for it… now.”
Together we move, the pressure easing, then reapplying. The BMW responds immediately, gliding into the higher gear, and the engine settles into a deep, steady hum.
“Okay.” I chuckle softly. “I felt that.”
“Good.” Gregg's eyes are still on the road. “That’s the car telling you it’s happy.”
A few seconds later, a slower vehicle ahead of us moves into our lane. His hand tightens slightly over mine. “Fourth,” he says quietly. “Just a bit more intention.”
He guides my hand again, firmer this time, the motion decisive. The engine surges as we pass, the acceleration clean and controlled. When his hand finally lifts from mine, the absence feels louder than the engine. But again, his hand found its way back to my leg, giving it a squeeze.
“See?” he says lightly, shooting me a playful wink. “Easy concept.”