The next day, I said goodbye to Nik, made sure it wasn’t stupid o’clock in England, and rang Bellerose.
He answered quickly, just like always. “Hello, Arden.”
“Knitted anything cool?”
“I sincerely wish I hadn’t told you that.”
“Do you make your own yarn and stuff as well, or do you buy it?”
“My yarn is none of your business. Now, is there something you need?”
I couldn’t quite contain an eager squeak. “I’m ready to come home.”
“Caspian will be delighted. When would you like the jet?”
Oh dear God. I was never going to get used to being able to order a plane like a pizza. “As soon as possible?”
There was a pause. Presumably Bellerose was…actually, I had no idea. Calculating stuff? Organizing things? “You will be departing at nine a.m. tomorrow. Be at the airport in good time.”
“Yay. Thank you.” Since Bellerose couldn’t see me, and I was in a city where nobody knew me, I skipped about excitedly. “Will you let Caspian know? In case you see him before he picks up a message?”
“Of course. Though I should tell you he has a social engagement in the evening and therefore may not be available to meet you when you arrive.”
I stopped skipping. But, honestly, what had I been expecting? That a man like Caspian Hart would have nothing on his schedule? Or that he’d be able to drop everything for me? “It’s okay. I get it. Thanks again, Bellerose.”
“See you soon, Arden.”
Disappointment drowned me in its bitter tide. And I slumped onto the bed, on the verge of tears, trying to figure out if I was overreacting or not. I mean, I knew this wasn’t Caspian’s fault. It wasn’t a value judgment on my importance to him or a reflection of my place in his life.
It was sucky circumstances.
But I guess I’d got used to his availability. To being busy, and hurried, and in the middle of something while he scheduled and rescheduled around me. And now the clock was striking midnight. The spell was breaking. And tomorrow I’d be in London, my time turned back into mice and pumpkins: not special at all.
Then my phone rang.
It was Caspian and, for a split second, I thought about not answering. I don’t know why—just that I was feeling bad, and wanting in some hopelessly petty and non-specific way to make him be the thwarted one, the disappointed one, the one who was always waiting and dreaming and hoping. Then I realized I was being a complete wanker, and picked up.
“I’m so sorry,” said Caspian, rather breathlessly, “my mother’s holding one of her charity auctions tomorrow. And I can’t fail to attend.”
Oh great. A charity auction. Could I be any more selfish?
“I understand.” I said, only lying a little bit. “It’s okay.”
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.
I would have said it was the worst journey ever except I’d flown out in the first place because my best friend had been hit by a car. And that was the sort of thing that could really hold its own at the top of your “rubbish travel experiences” list.
By the time we were dithering about in London airspace, waiting for permission to land, I had given up on everything except lying flat on my back in the middle of the floor, just about managing not to whine audibly because the cabin crew didn’t deserve that.
Internally, though? It was whine city.
I’m here, I texted Caspian. With, frankly, extraordinary dignity and forbearance.
And then, I’m back—and in time for your birthday, along with a flourishing collection of smileys to Ellery. yay was her reply.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I was finally back on British soil…well, British tarmac. But the moment I’d been passport-stamped and custom-checked, and released from the posh-person pen, there he was: Caspian Hart, waiting for me, among the scatter of strangers outside.
It was weird, I know, but I found him without consciously having to look. As if some part of me already knew how to find him. The rest of the world reduced to nothing but a painted backdrop.
He was wearing the midnight blue suit I’d seen first at Oxford. And I’d somehow forgotten how beautiful he was. I mean, not really. But the difference between reality and memory was like Dorothy arriving in Oz. I could see color again. Endless shades of Caspian: the twist of silver in the blue of his eyes, the not-quite-black of his hair, the pale lips that lost all their severity in the redness of kissing.
God. He made me dizzy. My stomach churn and my heart flutter. My knees literally weak. How could he be even a little bit mine? I think I might have fallen over—just reeled and flopped to the floor—if he hadn’t swept me into his arms.
I felt his breath against my cheek. And all he said was Arden. But it was so full of longing and joy and relief and possession that it hardly sounded like my name anymore.
It sounded like mine.
And then he was kissing me. A full-on fuck the world, I’m never getting on a plane again Casablanca kiss. A kiss to break the edges of skin itself and make you two, and one, and whole, and together, and everything between.