Page 51

TWENTY-SEVEN
Cari
The flight didn’t take nearly as long as I hoped itwould. “You’ve been upgraded to first-class, Ms. Faraday,” The gate agent said, handing me my cell after scanning my boarding pass. I open my mouth to ask how and why but quickly close my mouth when I figure it out on my own.
Conner.
Settling back into my wide, comfy seat, sipping my champagne, flipping through an old, in-flight copy of Bostonian I make a mental note to add the upgrade to the growing list of things I have to thank him for. Like thinking of him created him out of thin air, his face appears in front of me, captured between the pages of the magazine in front of me, the words Boston’s Best Catch splashed across the page below him.
It wasn’t Conner, though. It was Patrick.
Pictures of him running in track pants and a fitting tank that shows off the kind of body that makes your mouth water. Coaching his team, looking relaxed and casual in jeans and t-shirt, baseball cap tugged low over his face. Volunteering at the library, sitting next to an older man, both heads bent over a book while Patrick taught him how to read. Laughing behind the bar, towel slung over his shoulder. On a job site, looking ruggedly handsome, complete with hardhat and tool belt.
A ten-page spread. All of it dedicated to the utter perfection and availability of Patrick Gilroy. Near the end of the article, it mentions the charity show and that he is the subject of a series of paintings by local artist, Cari Faraday.
Great. Now the whole world knows I’m obsessed with him.
“I met him.”
I look up to see a flight attendant standing over me with a fresh glass of champagne. We haven’t even taken off yet. I look back at the magazine open in front of me, taking a few seconds to grasp what she’s telling me.
“You met Patrick Gilroy?”
She beams at me, a gorgeous brunette with perfectly painted red lips. “A few of the girls and I were on a layover so, we went looking for him at his bar last summer,” she whispers, crouching slightly as she exchanges my empty glass for a chilled flute. “He did not disappoint.” She whispers, giving me a conspiratorial wink that makes me nauseous. “All night long.”
I take the glass from her, praising myself for not throwing it in her face. “He sounds… perfect.”
She sighs dreamily and nods. “He is… although they airbrushed the most delicious part about him out of all the pictures.” She leans over a bit to look at the magazine in my lap. “He’s covered in tattoos.”
I laugh, relief making me giddy. Leave it to Conner to find a way to take advantage of his cousin’s fifteen minutes of fame. I lift my champagne and toast her. “Here’s to perfection.”
We land two-hourslater. The second the wheels touch down on the tarmac, I’m a nervous wreck again, the confidence built up during Grace’s marathon pep-talk melting away under the weight and heat of my anxiety.
I press a shaky hand to my stomach and wheel my carry-on to baggage claim. I’ve packed enough to tide me over until I find a place to live for Grace, Molly and me. She hasn’t said yes yet, but I’m hoping she’ll come around. Aside from a few trips to Dayton for family vacations, and a weekend trip to Boston for my college graduation, Grace has never been more than fifty miles outside of Benton.
I catch a flash of him in the crowd, leaning against a concrete pillar outside baggage claim, checking his phone. The second he looks up and sees me, my stomach instantly clenches, the anxiety roaring back with each nervous step.
Patrick. He came to pick me up.
His hair is cut short again, a little longer on top than usual. Dark jeans and boots, topped with a white thermal and flannel, open at the throat, and a worn Carhartt jacket I’ve never seen him wear. It’s not until I see him smile, a wide, cheeky grin that does nothing to curl my toes, do I realize it’s not Patrick waiting for me. It’s Conner.
“Hey, Legs,” he says, reaching over to take my carry-on. “Tess is buried at the garage—I’m your consolation prize.” Nothing about Patrick or why he’s not here to get me.
Behind me, I hear a titter of high-pitched voices and look over my shoulder to see a trio of flight attendants, wheeling their carry-ons through the terminal. In the middle of them is the pretty brunette from my flight. Her gaze is latched onto Conner like he’s the second-coming of Jesus. She recognizes me a moment later, and I smile at her while the color drains from her face.
Con doesn’t even notice her. Instead, he gives me a grin before leaning over to drop a quick, brotherly kiss on my cheek. “You ready?”
I listen while Confills me in on what’s been going on the last eleven months. Declan’s been caught in Bridezilla hell. Tess is burying herself in work, so she doesn’t have to deal. I half-listen, waiting for him to mention Patrick, even though I know he won’t. If I want to know about Patrick, I’ll have to ask.
“Thank you,” I say instead, shooting him a quick look across the car.
“For what?” he says, sounding genuinely confused.
“Everything,” I tell him, slightly exasperated. “Scrubbing the video. The money—twice.”
“Oh, that,” he says, checking his rearview before he changes lanes. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, that,” I mimic. “You act like it’s not a big deal.”