Page 72 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

But Caspian made a sound perilously close to a growl. “It’s not okay, Arden. It’s been weeks. I need to see you.”

God. Had I really thought I wanted him to suffer? Because I didn’t. It was awful, hearing him so frustrated and unhappy, whatever my own feelings on the matter. “Can you come round after? I’ll wait up?”

“These things always run late.”

“I don’t care. I’ll be jet lagged as fuck anyway.”

There was nothing to hear exactly, but I somehow got the impression he was pacing. I could imagine it all too easily—his long strides tearing his office to shreds, turning his windows to walls, his walls to bars.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please, Caspian.”

“I’m sorry, I’m acting like a child. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“That’s perfect.” I did my happiest grin at the phone, in the hope he could sense it somehow. “I can’t wait.”

Another restless silence.

“What time do you arrive?”

“Yikes, I have no idea. I’m flying out at nine and the flight is, what, seven hours but then there’s time zones and—”

“So you’ll be back in England around eight or nine.”

“I will?” I found it pretty sexy that he could figure that shit out instantly. Although it did slightly remind me of the time he’d destroyed my family at Carcassonne.

“I’ll pick you up from the airport and take you home. Then I can head on to the event.”

That sounded amazing. But also like it would be a pain in the arse to him. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. So I will.”

I fell back, swooning on the bed. “Yes, Mr. Hart.”

He laughed, but there was rough note at the heart of it. So I knew that, in his own way, he was swooning too.

When he was gone, I settled down with my laptop and reread what I’d written about Poppy Carrie. Unfortunately, at this point, I was incapable of assessing it with any degree of criticality. It could have been brilliant, it could have been terrible, most likely it was somewhere in the middle. At any rate, it was clear there was nothing more I could do with it. So, instead, I tortured myself over my cover letter. And, finally, sent that—along with a sample of the interview itself—to Milieu.

Then there was nothing for it but to have an early night. I wasn’t sure what Bellerose had meant by “be at the airport in good time” but he’d sounded sufficiently ominous about it that I knew I definitely didn’t want to be in bad time. And so it seemed reasonable to set my alarm for 5 a.m.

Except, when it actually went off at 5 a.m., I learned it wasn’t reasonable at all.

Dragging myself out of bed like a zombie from a fresh grave, I dressed, threw my stuff into my suitcase, and went to acquire breakfast. I was drooping over toast and orange juice when I realized my T-shirt was on inside-out.

And, y’know, I just couldn’t find the will to care.

Somehow, I managed to check out, get in the car, and get to the airport. Do the airport things. In one of the special lounges I was starting to take for granted, I slipped into a weird stupor, almost halfway between being asleep and being awake, and way less satisfying than either. At the back of my mind, though, I was secretly rejoicing in my borderline comatose state. An international flight was going to be a piece of cake if I could successfully spend it sleeping.

But my brain rebelled about five minutes after take-off. And, suddenly, I was wildly alert and barely able to sit still. Bouncing off the walls of Caspian’s plane.

All I could think was: I’m going home.

I’m going to see Caspian.

And I couldn’t seem to make myself understand that I was, actually, very tired. And had a long journey ahead of me. Instead my heart wanted to soar through the skies and skim the ocean waves.

For seven fucking hours.

Nrrrrghhh.