“Mr Hawthorne, we are ready to board, our take-off slot is in twenty minutes.”
“Understood.”
“Your passenger? Miss West.”
“On her way,” I snapped with more anger than confidence.
That goddamn selfie.
It meant I practically ghosted for almost two weeks. Apart from confirming the time the car would arrive for her, and that Island Formal really is a style of clothing. I thought of everything. Traffic conditions, airport change, ensuring a big enough jet in case her luggage was enough to sink a boat. The hotel has been triple-checked.
I arrived half an hour early. Cora appears to not follow the same rules as myself. Not that I could meet her in person to remind her.
I have zero trust in my own ability to behave. I failed at Flyermans, grabbing her like that was a gut instinct. A need s
