Page 6 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

Together, we rifle through the racks until I find a pair of simple black pants and a graceful cashmere cardigan. I nearly choke when I glimpse the price tag.

At the register, I hand the woman my card in the tiny wallet stored in the pocket of my dress as Dean reaches into his own pocket, retrieving his cell phone. Whatever message is on the other end causes his carefree smile to drop.

“Everything okay?” I ask as the worker types a few things on her computer.

“Yeah. Just a friend sending me a stupid article.”

“What’s it about?” I ask as the worker holds my card toward me.

“Sorry, but this card is declined. Do you have another form of payment?”

The words hit me like a slap I should’ve seen coming. My throat tightens as I stare at the screen behind the counter, blinking hard, like maybe if I give it a second, the numbers will change. That the error message will vanish. But it doesn’t. It’s there in big, bold letters.

Declined.

Fuck.

I knew, knew , this was a possibility. Prescott and his family don’t play fair. But I thought I’d have more time. Maybe a few days. Some sort of buffer. Something. It hasn’t even been eight hours since I walked out of that boutique and left behind the life I was supposed to be grateful for.

And now here I am. In a different country, in a boisterous airport hoping for some sort of relief, clutching a now-useless credit card like it’s a lifeline that’s snapped right in the middle.

“I—uh, hold on a second.” My voice trembles as I reach into my nearly empty wallet no bigger than my trusty passport I’d just received the day before, like there’s a magic card I forgot existed.

But there’s nothing. Just my nearly empty checking card and a loyalty punch card for a bookstore back home. Buy ten, get one free.

I almost laugh. Almost.

I’m suddenly hyperaware of the woman behind the counter watching me, her expression kind but tight, like she’s seen this before. The look people give someone who’s unraveling quietly in public.

I mutter an apology and step aside, letting the next person in line move forward as I back away from the counter. My chest is tight, like there’s a vise around my ribs. My hands won’t stop shaking. And my heart, my idiot, impulsive, broken heart, is still trying to catch up.

This was supposed to be freedom.

When I booked the flight, I didn’t care where it went.

Scotland popped up on the list like some romantic cliché, and I clicked before I could change my mind.

My fingers trembled as I typed in my information, pressing submit while still in the Uber, the boutique in the rearview mirror, my reflection in the window looking like a ghost. I didn’t even look at the itinerary. I just… ran.

Now, the running has caught up with me.

I have no pounds. No working cards. No hotel reservation. No actual plan beyond escape. I don’t even have toothpaste.

What the hell was I thinking?

The panic creeps in, slow and sharp, like cold air filling a cracked window. I don’t cry. Not yet. But the tears are there, heavy and threatening, pressing behind my eyes like a dam that won’t hold much longer.

I left because staying felt like death by slow suffocation. But now I’m here and don’t know how to breathe. I’m alone in this country, this city in all its beauty, and even the air feels foreign.

What now?

What the hell do I do now?

Right now, I’m grounded, panicked, and broke.

But I didn’t come here to fall apart. I came here to remember who I was before all of this.

Before Prescott. Before the lies and the lace and the feeling of being trapped in someone else’s dream.

I came here to figure out what freedom actually looks like. Even if it scares the hell out of me.

“I… I don’t—I’m—” My words trip over themselves, embarrassment heating my cheeks faster than I can form a coherent thought.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Here,” he says smoothly, sliding his card across the counter in exchange for mine, while simultaneously propping a small bag onto the counter with a recognizable mobile phone logo plastered on the front.

“No!” I protest, trying and failing to push his annoyingly solid arm back. “You don’t have to do that.”

His grip stays firm, steady. “I want to. We’re practically married, remember? What’s mine is yours.” His grin is all smug charm, and it sends a ripple through my already chaotic chest.

Before I can argue further, the worker lifts the card from Dean’s fingers with a small, amused smirk. “Oh, meal do naidheachd.”

I blink, startled by the unfamiliar phrase. My gaze swings to her face. “Wait—what?”

“It means congratulations in Scottish, sweetheart,” Dean explains as he swiftly wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me against his body. I gasp at the collision and the immediate sense of warmth that seeps through my clothes.

With a Southern drawl, Dean says, “Thank you, ma’am.” I swear I see a faint redness grow on her cheeks. At least I know I’m not the only one not immune to his good looks.

Wordlessly, I take the bag and clutch it against my chest as I allow Dean to guide me out of the store with his hand on my lower back, all the while explaining that he purchased a burner phone for me with unlimited everything.

I’m so overwhelmed I barely realize that he takes us toward a bathroom across the way. It’s one of the larger family-style kind, and as I shuffle inside, Dean follows suit.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I screech, feeling like a bunny cornered by a fox.

“I assume you’ll need help with your dress.”

I did, in fact, need help unlacing the back of the dress. I was grateful during the flight that I hadn’t needed his help when I used the restroom. The nice flight attendant had helped me gather the overabundant material for the much larger first-class lavatory.

“Fine, but that’s it. I have to pee, and I’d like to keep what little dignity I have remaining intact.”

“Of course.”

Removing his jacket, I drape it over my arms as I turn my back toward him, gathering my loose hair over my shoulder.

A few seconds pass, and I wonder what’s holding him up.

I know the laces and pearls are intricate, but nothing I didn’t think he could manage.

When I peer over my shoulder, my skin grows hot as I take in the tic of his jaw and his hungry eyes.

Slowly, he reaches outward toward the center of my back. Instead of touching the material, the tips of his fingers brush against the skin of my back, sliding a loose piece of hair gently across my shoulder blade to join the rest of the strands. I hold my breath through the entire contact.

Then with deft fingers that leave me considering that he must have done this before, he loosens the laces until they fall through the final loop. With my arm holding his jacket, I squeeze the top of my dress against my body as he unfastens the few buttons that grace the bottom of the bodice.

No one moves. No one speaks. And Lord knows I’m not about to peer over at the mirror to look at him again.

And just when I think he’s going to step away, Dean’s knuckle traces each vertebra of my spine as it travels toward the base of my neck.

I could do nothing to fight against the shiver that racks my body.

This stranger has me ready to bend at his will, and I’m not even sure he’s aware.

But then again, I’m certain Dean realizes the power he holds over women.

“Dean,” I moan as his finger pauses, and as if I’ve imagined the entire thing, his warmth slips away.

A chill settles in the room as Dean coughs and says, “You’re all set. I’ll wait for you outside.”

Not trusting myself to look at him, I whisper that I’ll be done shortly.

Once I hear the door click shut, I reach out to lock it, then start pushing the white monstrosity down my body.

In the mirror across the way, I stare at the pool of lace and mesh as it rests in a heap at my feet.

My body is covered in nothing more than nude-colored panties and a matching cotton bra.

Simple and plain, just how I’d felt this morning at the dress fitting.

A pauper among all the princesses. But as my gaze catches my stare in the mirror, I’m amazed to find my cheeks flushed and my eyes shimmering.

And I know, without a doubt, that the vivacity in my body comes from one person—Dean.

After relieving myself, I dig through the bag and pull out the soft black pants, grateful they’re wide-leg so I don’t have to wrestle with my converse in a public bathroom.

The pink cardigan is just as soft as it looked, the kind that feels like borrowed comfort—safe, simple, warm.

I shrug it on quickly, tugging the hem down over my hips, and glance back at the discarded wedding dress slumped in the corner like a ghost of the life I was supposed to step into.

For one reckless, wonderful second, I consider stuffing the whole damn thing into the trash can. Just bury it under the paper towels and soap wrappers.

But I don’t. Unfortunately, being that I’m broke, I figure I can sell the dress to a local consignment shop. At least that may help me get enough cash to find a place to sleep for the night.

Shoving the material with all my strength into the plastic bag, I’m disappointed to find half of the skirt spilling from the sides. Gathering all my strength, I punch the material one last time and pretend the last year of my life didn’t happen.

Because no matter how far I run, Prescott and his family will come looking. And not because they’re worried. Because they’re calculating. Because to them, everything is about appearances, and my disappearance is nothing more than a wrinkle in their perfectly curated life.