Page 56 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

Juliet

“What do you mean my passport isn’t registering?” I ask the ticket agent behind the counter. I wish my French was better, but I’ve resorted to English to try and get my point across with the help of Google Translate in between.

I can’t think straight while I want to murder Silas.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but I cannot sell you a ticket.”

I drop my head into my hands.

Unbelievable .

He’s going to use a power play to force me to talk to him. This is the side of Silas that I was afraid would come back. Arrogant prick.

“Please try again. Maybe it was just an issue in the system.”

“It is not unclear on my behalf, Miss. I’m sorry, but—”

“Thank you. I’ll just try another airline.” I sigh, grabbing my passport and license off the counter.

“You won’t be able to fly out with any of them,” she tells me, apologetically. Then she leans in closer to add more quietly, “It’s system-wide. You won’t even be able to board a ship or train to anywhere outside France.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, widening my eyes at her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, frowning. She’s trying to look apologetic, but there’s an unmistakable suspicion behind her eyes. I can’t blame her for looking at me like that. I’m sure this type of thing doesn’t happen every day.

I glance behind me at the line of impatient travelers waiting to speak with her next. I don’t want to attract more attention to myself if I don’t have to.

“Thanks anyway,” I tell her, forcing a smile. It’s not this agent’s fault that I fell for Silas biggest-asshole-of-all-time Davenport.

I step out of line and drag my bags behind me to a quieter part of the airport, one buckled to the next so I can handle them all myself, then pull my phone out to call Silas. There’s no getting around it. We have to talk.

Annoyed, I listen to his phone ring until the voicemail cue picks up. I stare down at the phone in shock. So much for urgently sitting beside it, waiting for me to call.

I call Ryan next. If anyone will have a handle on Silas’ state of mind and his whereabouts, it’ll be him. Plus, he’s called me enough times for me to know he’s concerned, too.

“Juliet!” Ryan sounds a bit breathless after picking up on the first half-ring. “How are—”

“Where is he, Ryan?” I interrupt, anger filling my voice. We’re a little past pleasantries at this point. “And please tell me why the hell I’m grounded in Paris?”

“He’s on his way to see you. They’re all in the air right now, which is why you can’t get ahold of him, if you tried.

” A fresh wave of guilt sloshes around the walls of my stomach.

The crew must have had to scramble everything together to change their flights around today, just to follow me here sooner than planned.

It didn’t have to be like this , I remind myself. Silas didn’t have to call whatever connection he has here in France to corner me.

He also didn’t have to fuck me in order to make good on a promise either, but here we are.

“Will you release my passport, then?” I ask, not bothering to check whether or not it was Silas who made that call.

Of course it was. No normal, everyday human has the power to ground a civilian passport in another country, but Silas has friends and associates in every corner of the globe with power and authority over things that someone like me — someone who has zero power — could only dream of.

“Where are you? I can direct the crew over to—”

“Oh no, I don’t want you directing anyone to me. I want you to make the call to release my travel restrictions. Now, please. This isn’t a normal thing to do when two people are having a disagreement and you know it, so just make the call, Ryan.”

A heavy silence follows and I know I’m not going to win this.

I lean my head back and fight the tears from coming.

“He’s just worried about you,” he answers, quietly.

I imagine Silas waking up to an empty hotel suite, instantly panicking when he saw the letter I left out for him on the bathroom counter. Realizing all my luggage was gone too.

“I get that. But when I’m worried about someone, I don’t usually confine them to a foreign country just so I can go have a conversation with them. He hasn’t changed at all.”

Silence again.

“Are you at the airport?” he finally asks.

“Yes.” I sigh, angrily. There’s no getting around this. “But I’m not sticking around here, just waiting for him to swoop in and convince me that he’s sorry. If he wants to have a conversation with me, he can come and find me himself. Clearly, he’s very good at that.”

My blood is boiling. I hang up the phone and walk outside to call a taxi or Uber or whatever it is that’s available as quickly as possible.

Then I double-check the text I received back from Monica after asking for the name of the hotel where my final letter from Grant is waiting.

Paris was supposed to be our final stop together.

I was going to book a later flight, retrieve the letter, and hop back on a plane to fly back home tonight, but now I just need to get that letter and apparently find a new way out of here, if at all possible.

If not, we’ll have to talk here, but at least I can try.

Le Petite Fleur.

“Le Petite Fleur,” I tell the taxi driver when he pulls over. I throw my bags in the trunk, not bothering to wait for him to assist me. “Accéléré, s’il te pla?t,” I add, calling upon the three years of high school French I’d taken over a decade ago. Please hurry.

“Tu l’as eu,” he says, behind the wheel. You got it.

I’ve never been here, but I take in as much of the city as I can while we pull away from the curb to start the drive.

Tall buildings and tiny cafés roll past the backseat window of the black sedan while I try to keep the blurry edges of my eyesight from spilling over to ruin the view racing by.

I never imagined that my first time seeing this city of love would be while running from two unimaginable heartaches.

When I arrive at the hotel, I have to convince the staff to hand Grant’s final letter over to me without Silas present, but I’ve come prepared.

“He’s been in an accident,” I tell the three people gathered behind the counter, forcing a deeply troubled look into my eyes.

It helps that I already look like I’ve been crying.

One of the staffers is a manager who’s been called over on my insistence.

“He’ll be here eventually to sign for it, but you’ll see that it’s my name on the envelope.

” I hand them my Massachusetts state driver’s license, hoping they don’t ask to see my passport too, just in case they’re connected to the same system as the airport somehow, which would only add to their budding hesitation.

Reluctantly, and after a bit more arguing, they finally hand it over.

Feeling like a fugitive on the run, I grab my keycard off the counter, along with the last unopened letter before they can change their minds.

Then I race off to my suite, glancing over my shoulder like I’ve just managed to rob a bank.

Between the forced grounding in Paris, and now this, my heart is pounding, even though I’ve done nothing wrong.

Except trust a man you never should have trusted.

It’s only a matter of time until Silas finds me here.

Monica probably already let him know that I asked about the name of the hotel so I could pick up the last letter here without him.

When he does arrive, we can have whatever conversation he wants to have so I can get out of here and back to Boston.

Even if it means flying separately. Something I’d prefer to do at this point anyway.

I shut the door behind me and push my back against it, slowly sinking onto the cold tile floor.

I’m relieved to be in my own space again, if only for an hour or two before he arrives. I need time to collect my thoughts and wade through everything that’s happened since leaving Nonna Lisi’s cozy stone cottage near the water last night.

Last night.

God, it feels like a lifetime ago.

I force the memory away and hold the envelope out in front of me with both hands, tracing the letters of my name on the front with my finger.

It’s the last one.

My final piece of him. Unread words I have yet to feel before it’s truly over, before I head back home without any more letters to look forward to.

I read Grant’s letter from Italy on the flight over here and it nearly broke me in half.

It was everything I wanted to hear before last night, which only made me regret reading Silas’ letter even more.

I don’t know whether to rip this one open, or to cherish this bittersweet moment of suspense that I know I’ll never feel again.

At least when it comes to him. To us . Grant always loved to write me letters and little notes, old-fashioned and romantic until the bitter end.

I’ve probably held a hundred or so unopened letters in my hands from him — each providing a moment of anticipation that no phone call or text could ever compare to.

It’s bitter, but not yet sweet, knowing this is the last time I’ll ever hold one again.

I close my eyes, allowing my thoughts to dance with the butterflies now filling my stomach.

Even after I retire this final letter to the memory box I have back home filled with all the letters and ticket stubs and programs and photos of us smiling like two people who never knew the end was drawing so near, I know I’ll still think back on this moment.

The moment I had to open it.

The last memory of just him and me.

I hug it to my chest. Wishing it was more than just a piece of parchment filled with words that used to pour from someone who was still very much alive.

Then I trace my name one more time before flipping the envelope over, unsealing it with the swipe of my finger against the sticky strip that held it in place over the past year.

Pulling the familiar paper out, I unfold it in front of me, sucking one last breath in before reading my love’s final goodbye.