5. Helen
HELEN
The week disappears into packing, and suddenly we’re at the airport.
“I’m going to miss you,” I say, hugging Olivia longer than makes sense for a flight to the West Coast.
The terminal is restless. Rollers rattle over tile, a PA announcement crackles overhead, someone argues on a phone. Boarding for her flight to LAX is called.
“I’m going to miss you too,” she says, her voice thick.
“Who’s going to make me New York strip?”
She laughs. “You’ve got the recipe.”
“Promise me you won’t bring home another Cane Toad.”
She winces. That’s a yes.
We hug again. There are tears—hers first, then mine. She’s going to LA, not the end of the world. Still, watching her disappear toward security undoes me more than I expected.
I turn toward the exit, wiping at my face, fishing my keys out of my bag as I head for the parking garage.
“Helen!”
I keep walking. Airports are full of Helens.
“Helen!”
The voice is closer now, familiar in a way that doesn’t quite compute.
I slow, turn, and squint toward the curb as a car eases alongside me. Not just a car, it’s a friggin’ Aston Martin.
And the man calling my name?
“Jagger?” I say.
Victor “Jagger” Rochemont looks at me through the open window as if he hasn’t been gone for years.
A long-time family friend, our fathers were once inseparable.
I was eighteen, he was twenty-four. We promised forever.
But life had other plans. He left for Europe, chasing something bigger, better. After that, only distance—and rumors.
And today, of all days, this is the moment I could use a few comforting words from an old friend. Or more. Or just…Jagger.
“Well,” he says, “didn’t think I’d see you here.”
The car idles. I step closer and we manage a hug through the open window.
“I was going to surprise you at home,” he adds.
I’m not sure what he means, or why, so I just look at him.
“Hey. You okay?” He lifts his sunglasses, studying me. “Someone break your heart?”
I catch my reflection in the lenses now perched on his head. I don’t need details to know the state of things—puffy eyes, flushed skin, everything still too close to the surface.
“Olivia,” I say. “I just dropped her off. She’s heading to LA. Stanford.”
“Seriously?” His grin flashes. He looks the same, save for a few more lines at the edges. “That’s great.”
A horn snaps behind us.
I flinch, then notice Victor’s driver. He lifts a hand in quick apology and nudges the car forward to let the line move, his forearm tightening as he turns the wheel. Strong hands, too.
He’s half-turned in his seat now, listening without looking at Victor. His focus stays forward, posture loose but ready. Dark hair, close at the sides, a touch longer on top. Sunglasses hide his eyes, though not the attention behind them.
Jesus.
Since when did Jagger hire someone who looks like this?
“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, my gaze flicking to the back seat. Empty. New York was always his home. If there was a wife, as the rumor said, I would’ve expected her here.
A ridiculous part of me wonders if Victor is single again and patient enough to try keeping me out of trouble for a few entertaining weeks.
I shove the thought aside and look back at the driver instead, only to catch myself wondering what kind of trouble this man might be.
A faint bruise shadows his cheekbone. Not fresh, but not gone either. My imagination gets to work before I can stop it. Maybe he took a hit meant for someone else. Maybe he earned it by standing in the wrong place for the right reason.
The story fits. Easily. Especially when his shoulders fill the driver’s seat like it was built around him, broad and solid.
He lifts his chin a fraction.
Is that a greeting? Or just an acknowledgment?
I look away first. I know Victor has been saying something and the only thing I catch is tonight.
“Seven sharp. What do you say?” he asks.
“Seven?” I blink. “Sorry—what is this?”
“The Silver Paw Ball. Tonight.”
“You want me to come?”
He laughs. “Helen, if you’re already planning a dramatic reunion, we’re still at an airport curb, not a time machine.”
I laugh too, though a ball with only a few hours’ notice isn’t funny. Especially when my wardrobe no longer includes Valentino or Chanel.
Still.
The Silver Paw Ball is big—sponsors, donors, the entire animal world in one room. It’s an event where a photographer can make connections that don’t come from cold emails.
To hell with it. I’ll make it work. If I have to borrow Victor’s access for one night, so be it. And buried deeper than I’d like to admit, I miss my old flame.
“Yeah. Sure,” I say.
“Perfect.” He grins. “Seven sharp. Expect a surprise.”
He winks, and before I can protest, the car pulls away, absorbed by traffic.
Olivia. Jagger. A suspiciously distracting driver. A ball with no warning.
Too much life for one day.