Page 8 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

“Not at all. This is me, trying to make sure you have somewhere safe to stay so I don’t worry about you.”

“Dean, you know the possibility of us ever running into each other again is extremely improbable, right?”

“Fine. I’ll just tell them I have a guest staying with me,” he says, more to himself than to me as he types away on his phone. I thought he’d started to relax, but he grows more harried with each passing second.

“Dean, I can take ca—” He interrupts me with a stern glare, one I’d only ever witnessed before from my father when I was in trouble. Only through Dean’s gaze is that something dark and provocative. It makes me curious about what would happen if I defied him.

“Now, I want you to take this card. It’s got no limit, so buy whatever you want.”

He holds out a shiny black card between his fingers, and as if fearing it may bite, I take a quick step back.

“No.”

“Damn, woman. You have no money in a foreign country. Let me do this for you, please.”

“What if I max out the card?”

I’d hoped for a snicker, the briefest of chuckles, but I’m left unrewarded.

His eyes hold none of the warmth from earlier.

Now they’re glassy with bottled-up emotions.

Whatever news he’s received leaves his hands shaking and breath unsteady.

I wish I could make him tell me whatever, or whoever has happened, just to ease some of the pain the same way he has for me. Carry some of his burden.

“That’s impossible. There’s no limit.”

No limit? I never really thought that was a possibility unless…

“Who are you?” I murmur.

“Someone who is just trying to do the right thing for once in my life. Please let me help you.”

My gaze darts up and down between him and the card until a shrill ring sounds from his phone. He growls into the microphone that he’ll be there in ten minutes, and I wonder how he is able to secure a flight so quickly.

Ending the call, he not so gracefully grabs my hand and shoves the card into my palm before forcing my fingers to close around it.

His hand lifts, still unsteady, and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The backs of his fingers trail gently down the curve of my cheek, a touch so tender it steals the breath from my lungs.

“I have to go,” he murmurs, voice low and thick. “Thank you, Lila.”

He steps back, and something in my chest pulls with him.

“For what?” I whisper, my breath catching, uneven and aching.

“Waking me up. Enjoy your trip.”

He stares at me, eyes searching mine for a moment, before turning on his heel and joining the throngs of people.

“But how will I get this back to you?” I shout.

“Don’t worry about it,” he yells in return.

As he blends into the crowd, I watch and wait for him to return, only to end up disappointed. But this is what I want: a little peace and quiet to just be me. A chance to remember who I am and not who Prescott Hoolihan wanted me to be.

Unraveling my fingers, I find the black card with the name Dean J.

Harrington embossed across the front. Any normal woman would feel relief at the thought of someone offering them a vacation at no expense, especially from someone as good-looking as Dean, but instead, I feel like nothing more than a charity case.

And I hate myself for it.

Reaching into the smaller plastic bag, I grab the pre-paid international phone Dean bought at the airport a few moments ago. I’d left my old phone in the boutique’s fitting room. Just another thing he had control over.

Thankful I knew my best friend Ashvi’s phone number by heart, I quickly type out a message letting her know I had landed and would let her know when I arrived at my hotel.

She’s the only person who knows why I ran this morning, and as my best friend, she swore she’d keep it a secret until I was ready to spill the beans. And she’s willing to keep my parents at bay. My poor mom must be freaking out.

Adding one more message to my mom, I let her know that I am safe and will explain everything when I’m ready. As expected, my phone begins ringing immediately, but I let it go to the voicemail box that I’ll figure out how to check later.

Right now, I have a decision to make. Do I stick with my plan of winging it for the next couple of weeks, or do I take the generous hand offered to me despite how it makes me feel? I know which choice Ashvi would make.

Harnessing whatever backbone I have left, I march my way toward the transportation area and find a waiting taxi.

“Where to?” the man with graying hair and gentle eyes asks as I slide across the back seat. He doesn’t speak with a strong Scottish accent like the woman in the store. He is more British than anything.

Digging into the plastic bag, I grab the business card and hand it to him.

“To this address, please.”

In the reflection of the rearview mirror, I watch his eyes bulge as he reads the card, and I’m left wondering where exactly Dean was booked to stay.

“Yes, miss.”

Soon, we’re out of the airport, and I stare out the window, taking in every little thing as we pass.

“Are you here for business or pleasure?”

“Definitely pleasure. It’s the first vacation I’ve taken in a long time.”

“Welcome! I hope you enjoy your time in our beautiful city.”

Glancing down at the overstuffed plastic bag at my feet, I tug Dean’s credit card from my pants pocket where I’d stuffed it earlier.

“Thanks. It’s already been one to remember.”

The eight-mile journey into Edinburgh stretches ahead, but I’m not in a rush.

Outside the window, the rolling green hills blur into soft watercolor streaks, dotted with sheep and the occasional stone cottage, like something out of a dream I forgot I’d been chasing.

And then, just as the anxiety I’ve been carrying eases its grip, the city unfolds before me in understated elegance.

Old, alive with character. Georgian townhouses with wrought-iron balconies, sweeping neoclassical facades, and Victorian rooftops line the streets, their grandeur softened by age and stories untold.

The steady rhythm of the car matches the calm that finally settles in my chest. For the first time in what feels like years, I can breathe, really breathe.

And it’s not just oxygen. It’s possibility.

It’s a flicker of something warm and weightless blooming deep in my chest. Hope.

Maybe I didn’t come here just to escape. Maybe… I came here to begin.