Page 1

CHAPTER ONE

AMELIA

“Do you need a barf bag?”

I crack a pinched lid on the squinty-eyed stare of the blonde teenager to my right.

“No.” Possibly a lie, probably a big one.

“Harrumph.” I’m not sure if she believes me, but presumably doesn’t think I’m an immediate threat. Still, she keeps a wary eye open as she slips her earbuds back in. Good, because at this moment, I can’t find it in myself to worry about what she needs.

The plane lurches, and another wave of nausea roils through me. I grab onto the armrests, gritting my teeth.

“Nervous flyer?”

I turn to the woman on my left. White hair and glasses frame a sympathetic expression. Her kind smile makes me relax, just a smidge.

I muster up a nod.

“We’ll be on the ground soon enough.”

Not soon enough.

Soon enough would have been hours ago, back at Heathrow when I first buckled myself into this deathtrap. Of all the foolish, ill-conceived notions. Because all it takes is one rogue flock of geese or an ill-timed lightning bolt to send us plummeting into the dark depths of the Atlantic.

“You visiting New York? Or returning home?” she asks. I think she’s trying to distract me and save me from myself. Or her shoes from damage. Either-or, I appreciate the effort.

“Visiting.” Politeness forces me to try for more than one-word answers. “My first time.”

“You’re in for an adventure.”

Adventure? Hopefully an escape. One that was badly thought through and even more poorly executed, but when you need to make a quick exit, it doesn’t leave you much time for nailing down a TripAdvisor-approved itinerary.

It doesn’t come with an itinerary at all.

My only goal was getting out of town as quickly as possible. I barely packed, didn’t prepare. All I wanted was to hide at least one ocean away where people spoke English of some kind. New York had always been on my to-see list, and so now I was seeing it sooner than expected. And hoping to stay forever.

Last-minute accommodation was an issue, but I managed to book a frightfully expensive Airbnb while waiting to board. Which is already eating into my barely there budget. Surely, it won’t be too difficult to find employment of some sort to tide me over before my savings run out while I figure out my next steps. It’ll be fine, won’t it?

Because failure is not an option. Because failure means returning to Fordwich. Returning to working at the inn. With Ben.

Ben-the-Bartender, who’d shown up at Gran’s inn right when I’d decided my lack of sexual experience was a problem. Not a big one. Hymen-sized. He’d believed in offering a full-service experience. Where full service equaled the full use of his dick. Exactly what I’d wanted when we began our little affair. I wasn’t looking for anything serious at the time.

But then he started doing more and more at work, and I started thinking forever. With Gran advancing in years and relying on him, the idea of a future where he’d manage the inn while I handled reservations and booked experiences for guests seemed like a perfectly agreeable arrangement.

I began thinking hearts and flowers and engagement rings and children. Right until he showed up with a pregnant fiancée.

Thank god, he’d insisted on discretion, citing Fordwich’s appetite for gossip. At least I’d been able to come up with the flimsy excuse of expiring credit card milage points for Gran before taking off.

I wasn’t about to sit back, running housekeeping and folding towels while this soap opera unfolded, so here I am, stumbling into an unscripted future.

Bile erupts in my throat. Bollocks, maybe I really am going to throw up.

I look around in a panic. You don’t even get sick bags anymore. All the seat pockets have been replaced with net pouches. Likely so flight attendants can scan for passenger contraband in the form of used socks. Or gum. Or the occasional emotional support hamster. Plus, sick bags are rather unsightly. Though I suppose whatever ends up on the carpet, more so.

My finger hovers over the call button, but it’s the middle of the night, and though dealing with cranky passengers is part and parcel of the job, I’d prefer not to inconvenience the crew.

Suddenly, I’m craving a bit of sugary bliss to sweeten this moment of terror. There should be something in my bag, safely tucked away in the overhead bin. But, wedged tightly in this middle seat, I’m hardly in a position to vault over my neighbors—not in this tin can of doom.

I resort to tapping out the rhythm to “Empire State of Mind” on my seat buckle, envisioning concrete jungles and ingredients that go into dreams.

Thunder booms outside and echoes through the cabin, sending a tremor up my spine. What the hell. A barf bag for the body, miniature bottles of liquid courage for the soul—I'm not fussed.

I’m about to hit the call button. Right then, the pilot comes on. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re getting ready to make our final descent. Please return your seat backs to their full upright position, and store your tray tables. Make sure your seat belts are securely fastened and carry-on luggage is returned to the overhead compartments or stowed under your seats.

“Ground temperature at JFK is sixty degrees Fahrenheit. That’s sixteen degrees Celsius, about normal for October. We should have you on the ground just after midnight.”

He pauses. “And welcome to New York, the place of a million dreams—and one parking spot.”

A million and one, now. Though what my dream is exactly, I have no idea. I just hope Frank Sinatra wasn’t fibbing when he said if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

The plane shudders again, and I whimper.

Of course, that requires actually making it “there” in one piece.

Since I’m already buckled in, I tighten the strap, further cutting off circulation to my lower half with how tightly the nylon pinches my skin. As much as I hate being confined, it’s better than being caught off guard.

“See? Just a few more minutes,” my seatmate says.

“Yes, thank goodness. Statistically, I’m aware that flying is one of the safest modes of transportation and that chances of the plane crashing are less likely than an accident on the motorway, and that the pilots are seasoned professionals with thousands of hours of experience. But have you seen the size of those thunderclouds? They could be black holes in disguise.” I clamp my mouth shut, blinking rapidly as I realize I’m babbling. Gran would be appalled. I turn back to the woman and offer a smile. “Pardon me. I’m just jittery… What about you? Are you looking forward to New York?”

“Oh no, honey. I’m going back home to Omaha. New York’s full of crazies.”

After a nerve-racking landing, and a less-than-orderly deplaning, I’m in a yellow cab on the way to Manhattan.

My eyes can barely stay open, but because I couldn’t eat on board, my stomach growls the entire ride. Now that I’m no longer in fear for my life, I’m starving.

The customs officer at the airport confiscated the Kinder Egg Surprise I bought before departing England on account of the Brit-made versions being choking hazards, and even though I waved both my US and British passports to prove I was twenty-three, he still took it. Did he assume I was saving the toy for a snack?

My stomach growls again. At least the lady I corresponded with regarding the Airbnb hinted at a welcome gift, something she likes to leave for guests. Good hospitality is always appreciated. After living and working at Gran’s inn most of my life, I know the smallest touches can make the greatest impressions. Please god, let it be food. Though wine might be better—never too late to indulge my inner lush. Now, food and wine? Perfect.

The cab driver jerks to a stop by my home for the next fortnight, an Airbnb in a prewar structure in Murray Hill. A fairly recent war, too. It can’t be older than seventy-odd years, well-preserved with a red brick that’s more inviting than intimidating.

An orange streetlight allows me to locate the lockbox with the keys, and I wedge myself and the suitcase I filched from Gran into the cramped entryway. It’s dimly lit by a flickering fluorescent tube above a row of mailboxes in peeling green paint. I come to a dead halt in front of the aluminum tin, also known as the lift. A quick assessment confirms both my belongings and I won’t fit in this coffin on a string—not that I’m complaining.

I shuffle my aching body toward the narrow staircase to its right instead and heave in a deep breath before bumping my bag up one creaking step at a time, pausing at each tight bend to huff and puff.

One last groan, and I reach the third floor, a grotty mess.

With a quick flick of the key, the door to my flat smoothly swings open. I step through and take in the shabby chic of the combo kitchenette and living space. It’s nondescript, with a few IKEA pieces and black-and-white prints of New York landmarks on the white walls.

No snack to be seen. Should’ve known that offer was too good to be true. I fling my tan coat on the weathered settee and toe off my trainers before dashing for the loo, yawning the entire time I pull off my jumper, so I’m just in a thin tank top. I’ll find something to sleep in and shower. Tomorrow’s soon enough to poke around further.

Suitcase in tow, I trudge to the bedroom, ready to collapse. I push open the door and fumble along the adjacent wall for the light switch. I flip it up.

And scream.

Because there it is. My welcome gift. Handcuffed to the bed.