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I really want to sleep for the whole flight, not only to help with jet lag, but also because I’ll have less than twelve hours in Manhattan before I need to get on another plane to California for CJ’s thirtieth birthday.

Thankfully I won’t be alone on that flight, since everyone who lives on the East Coast will pile onto a private jet, so I won’t have to deal with strangers for that flight at least. But I do need to unpack and pack again, as well as make sure everything’s in order at the brownstone and at both Sculpt, Sebas’s gallery, and St. Anthony, CJ’s gallery, both of which I manage.

Soon enough, my mind is full of unwanted thoughts—the house, the final decision to move permanently to America...

Before, I had the house in Oxfordshire, and that was a type of safety net that meant whatever happened I could always come back.

Now that’s gone, and that’s a good thing , I tell myself.

It means I trust that my safety net is now in New York. With my friends. With all those people who have become my family.

Starting therapy last year helped in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

I’ve now embraced this version of me, one that’s not the same as it was in college but also not the self-destructive man who I became after my parents’ deaths.

It means that when the sign for the seatbelts turns off, I don’t feel a sense of relief that I’ll now be able to get a drink to pass out.

I can sleep anywhere and anytime now, but I’m not even tired, really.

I do need to go to the bathroom, though, so I quickly stand up, but not before the woman in the seat in front of me does too.

She gets to the bathroom first, and a man from the other aisle beats me to the other bathroom at the front, so I stand around to wait and watch Ally and the other flight attendant—Phil—fill up the drinks cart.

I look away, I have to.

I don’t think of myself as an alcoholic, not strictly, but I do know I’ve straddled the line for too long, and I don’t need to be diagnosed to know being sober is better for me. In all respects.

My eyes collide with London’s, and she looks beyond uncomfortable, and is clearly trying to get someone’s attention.

I see it then. The man’s hand is on her knee, the one she has drawn up to her chest, and she’s pressed to the other side of her seat.

She couldn’t be signaling more clearly to this wanker that she doesn’t want his attention, and he’s still reaching over to touch her knee.

“Ally,” I mutter, looking back at her. She looks up, a bit startled, and I just nod in London’s direction. “Follow my lead.”

I do all I can think of in that moment and walk over quickly, then open my arms and act my arse off.

“London,” I cry enthusiastically. Her eyes open wide as I bend down to give her an air kiss, and whisper in her ear at the same time. “Name’s Carter, you want me to get rid of the fucker?”

“Yes,” she whispers, so fucking low, the single word trembling with emotion.

I have to clench my teeth to keep the anger at bay.

“It’s been so long, Carter,” she says then in a normal voice, sounding a lot less rattled.

I stand straight again and smile down at her, and I have to give the girl kudos for how well she’s handling this when she reaches up for my hand and smiles at me as if I’m a long-lost cousin or something.

“We have to catch up,” she says almost like a cheer.

“We do,” I agree, then make sure I look as innocent as a baby when I shift my gaze to the wanker. “Would you mind trading seats with me? I’m in a single just one row back.”

“Oh, well?—”

“Also available is the same seat as yours but two rows back, Mr. Prodi.” Ally interrupts whatever protest he was about to utter.

“Yeah, all right,” he says in an American accent—New York accent if I’m not mistaken.

Ally interrupts him again, offering help with his carry-on luggage when he goes to say something to London, and I don’t move from my spot in front of London until he’s sitting at the back.

“Thank you,” she says, bringing my attention back to her. Her voice quivers again, and I have to dismiss the lava-hot fury inside me.

God, some people really are scum.

“I’m glad I saw it,” I tell her honestly. “I’ll sit here, but don’t you worry, I need to sleep, so I won’t bother you. ”

And with all that emotion out of the way, exhaustion suddenly weighs down every bone in my body.

After I get my belongings and place them on top of my new seat, I turn to check on London again and see her eyes wide, firmly stuck on the wall above her screen. She looks scared out of her mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask her quietly, and I consciously put my hands on my lap where she can see them, and stay very still.

“I don’t—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head and swallows hard. “I’d prefer to talk about anything else right now.” Her whisper squeezes my heart.

“Okay, then maybe you can give me some idea about what to get a friend of mine for his thirtieth birthday,” I think on the spot.

She breathes out slowly, then turns to look at me with a focused frown.

“What kinds of things does he like?” she asks.

“He’s training to be a surgeon at the moment, so what he likes is sleep. Oh, and his boyfriend. Our other friend and his husband are getting him a sculpture of St. Anthony, and in my opinion that’s just unfair because I can’t make a sculpture.”

My whiny voice gets me a smile, which has me feeling ten feet tall.

“Is your other friend an artist?” she wonders.

“Can you keep a secret?” I ask in a whisper.

She nods, eyes wide, but with some confusion.

“I have no idea if you’ll know who he is, but our friend is Adam Darnell. He’s the?— ”

“The quarterback of the Kings,” she interrupts, her eyes shining with interest now. “My brothers love the Kings.”

“Right, so Adam’s husband is a sculptor—an amazing artist, really. And the friend who has the birthday, that’s CJ, and he loves St. Anthony because he’s the saint of lost things. It’s a whole story that I won’t bother you with, but?—”

“Wait,” she stops me, and puts a hand up, palm to me. “Are you talking about CJ Sounders? Wolf’s boyfriend?”

I tilt my head to the side, and I’m sure I look like a puppy to her, but then I remember.

“Oh right, you gotta know Wolf, right? Your dad’s good friends with him and Hawk.

” I remember when Wolf was living in New York a while back, how he told me he went to their home for a family meal every other week.

London nods repeatedly. “I like Wolf,” she says, and then an adorable blush covers her cheeks.

“Well, so does CJ,” I say with a snort. My friend is borderline obsessed with his rock-star boyfriend. I’m glad to see when her bout of embarrassment passes quickly, and I can also see how she relaxes more in my presence.

Mentioning all my famous friends was the perfect way for her to trust me, and know I’m not going to be talking to the press or posting about our interaction on social media.

“You could get him a statue of Wolf,” she says suddenly with an air of excitement.

I shake my head. “I’m not an artist,” I tell her regrettably. “And I need to leave tomorrow morning for the party.”

“And you still don’t have a gift?” She whisper-shouts the question, clearly not happy with my procrastination .

“I know,” I groan, then lean back in my seat and look up at the airplane’s ceiling.

“Okay, we’re landing at three, so I bet if we can figure out what you’re going to get him, you can buy it before the stores close.”

I can see she’s well and truly distracted as she reaches for her tablet and connects it to the plane’s Wi-Fi.

Sleep forgotten, I get to work on helping this bright girl forget the awful incident. It’s a great excuse to forgo rest if there ever was one.