Page 9 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

The last thing I expect after discovering that my ex has an entirely separate family is kindness. Certainly not a luxurious hotel room in Edinburgh with a view of Arthur’s Seat and a crisp, linen envelope with my name on it.

I don’t expect to see Dean again. Besides knowing his name, I don’t really know who he is despite my best efforts.

The hotel staff is polite and professional yet maddeningly tight-lipped.

Whenever I ask about the man who booked the suite, who left the letters, and somehow knew exactly what I needed, they only smile and say, “He asked for privacy.”

A billionaire ghost with immaculate taste and mysterious manners.

The suite is otherworldly. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline of Old Town.

My bed is a cloud of down. I imagine it’s what royalty would sleep on.

My wardrobe, I realize, has been pre-stocked with new clothes that fit perfectly—casual sweaters, walking boots, evening dresses in colors I forgot I loved.

It should feel invasive. It doesn’t. It feels…

thoughtful. Whomever Dean had selected to collect the clothes nailed it.

I find the first letter on the desk. Heavy paper. Ink like calligraphy. Single name.

Lila,

You don’t owe anyone strength right now. Or poise. Or politeness.

You owe yourself stillness. Breath. Kindness.

Scotland is magic. Let it work on you.

I’ll be here—in the ways that matter.

-Your Friend

The letter makes my throat tighten. No signature. No identifying information. Just the whisper of someone who sees me.

The next day, I walk the Royal Mile. I get lost between the closes—narrow alleys lined with stories. I visit Greyfriars Kirkyard and run my fingers over old gravestones, wondering how long grief echoes in stone.

At The Elephant House, I sip strong coffee and reread the letter. A surprise platter of biscuits arrives at my table. I ask the barista, again, about the man who arranged all this.

Another polite smile. “He said to tell you he hopes you like the lemon shortbread.”

Dammit. He’s everywhere and nowhere.

Lila,

Did you know I saw you running through the airport? Like a comet passing too close? Both stunningly brilliant and retina burning. You’re stardust, scientifically speaking.

Go see Calton Hill today. It’s touristy, but the view is worth it.

And please—eat something warm.

-Your Friend

I do what he says.

Climbing Calton Hill is like stepping into a dream. The wind slaps my face, and the city unfolds beneath me. Monuments stand tall and defiant. The sun breaks through gray clouds like a beacon in the night.

Lila,

I requested something through the concierge. A guidebook—local’s notes in the margins. Circled pages. Places I thought might speak to you.

Today, take the train to North Berwick. Walk along the shore. Let the cold sea say things you can’t.

You’re doing better than you think.

-Your Friend

The sea smells like salt and home. I walk until my cheeks are raw and my fingers ache. I watch birds float in the sky and think about trust and love.

Each night, I come back to another letter. Slipped under my door. Nestled in my pillowcase. Tucked into the coat pocket I didn’t wear until the rain started.

Lila,

This letter has no advice. No plans. Just a truth: None of this is your fault.

He was.

-Your Friend

I cry on the train back to Edinburgh. Not quietly or pretty either. But no one bothers me. It is a welcome reprieve.

Lila,

You’re starting to walk straighter. I know it, even if I can’t see it.

Go to Dean Village-ironic, yes. Find the café with the chipped teapot. The owner’s name is Moira. Tell her you want “whatever’s warm.”

You’re allowed to be happy.

-Your Friend

Dean Village is storybook perfect. Siobhan gives me soup and shortbread and a conspiratorial wink. When I ask about the man who sent me, she smiles and walks away.

Back at the hotel, the suite feels more like home than anywhere I’ve stayed. But I don’t belong here, either. Nothing feels quite right.

I’m not hiding anymore. I’m healing.

I go to Stirling Castle, and then to a whiskey tasting in Oban. I talk to strangers. I buy a pair of earrings. I let myself laugh.

And each day, a letter waits. Simple. Steady. Anonymously signed. But filled with so much of him, I start to hear his voice when I read. I wish that he hadn’t been called away at the airport and spent each of these days with me. A longing that overwhelms me if I think about it too long.

Lila,

If this were a book, you’d be at the turning point.

So what happens next?

What do you want it to be?

-Your Friend

I sit on the floor of the suite that night, surrounded by his letters.

Fourteen of them now. Each one folding open a different piece of me.

I don’t know who he really is. Not in the way the world defines knowing.

But I know how he makes me feel. He’s been a friend in all the ways I needed one when I was too embarrassed to contact home. And maybe that’s enough.

The last letter is hidden in the sleeve of the coat I nearly forgot to pack. I find it just before heading to the airport.

Lila,

You asked who I am.

The truth is, I’m someone who could watch you break and do nothing. That’s what the world knows me as. Cold. Heartless. Selfish.

But with you, you’re seeing the me I can be.

I’m someone who believes in you. In the way I know you’ll stand back up again and again.

I hope you find your new beginning.

-D

The initial stops me.

D.

Dean. Seeing him acknowledge himself seems more personal.

I sit on the edge of the bed, suitcase open, coat folded beside me.

I’m not going to find him. That’s not the point.

The point is that I found something else: stillness, truth, and the voice I’d buried under years of being small to make someone else feel big.

I breathe in the Edinburgh air one last time, letting it fill my lungs. I’m ready to go home. Not to a person. To myself.