Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Choose any seat you like,” she invites in her award-winning customer service voice.
I glance at the immaculate interior in wonder, gawking at the subtle luxury touches around the cabin. The polished wood panels, the ambient lighting, the cream leather. Someone closes the door of the jet, and it makes a huffing noise as it seals shut. And then it hits me. Whoa! Is it possible that I am the only passenger? The only passenger on an entire freaking jet! My father must be a very rich man.
“This is insane,” I mutter, sinking into the leather seat closest to me.
“Welcome aboard, Miss Button. I’m Melinda, your air hostess,” a blonde with a toothy smile greets in an American accent.
“Thank you,” I murmur, putting on my seatbelt.
“You’re welcome. Take-off will be in approximately five minutes,” she informs and glides away towards the cockpit.
Another air hostess approaches me, holding a tray with a glass of champagne on it.
“Where’s the Beluga caviar?” I ask, joking. Lame. Lame.
She smiles faintly. “I’ll be sure to serve the caviar after take-off. Would you like something to drink in the meantime? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”
I take the champagne. “Um… do you do G & Ts?”
“Of course,” she says pleasantly.
“Then, yes, please. I’d love one,” I say. “Uh… actually make that a large double.”
Her mouth tilts upwards as she nods. When she walks away, I take a sip of bubbles and turn around to look outside. It’s dark, and there are men wearing high-vis vests moving around. It’s so extraordinary, so surreal, I can hardly believe it is not a dream. The air hostess returns with my drink and puts it on the little table in front of me. I thank her and take a sip. It’s good. Like really good.
“Is that all right, Miss Button?” she asks.
I nod, still flabbergasted.
She leaves, and I turn to stare out the window as the plane begins to taxi. We build up speed, then the wheels leave the ground. I watch as we climb up, higher and higher. The bright lights of London shrink beneath me, the familiar grid of streets and glowing lights fading into clouds. My thoughts swirl faster than the wind. I wait until the seatbelt light stops flashing, before I fumble for my cell phone and call Serena. She answers on the first ring.
“Jo?” she says. Her voice is alarmed. “Are you ok?”
“Yes. I’m … on a private plane,” I breathe. “Solo.”
There’s a pause. “What?” she blurts. “Are you joking?”
“No joke,” I tell her and lean back, amazed at the plush comfort surrounding me. “There’s a stewardess just for me. Food, drinks. They actually have caviar. I’m … I can’t even. This is insane.”
She laughs, a breathless ‘you have to be kidding me’ kind of laugh. “You’re living every poor-girl-comes-good fantasy right now. I hate you.”
“No, don’t hate me. Be jealous instead.”
We both laugh, then Serena insists I send photos. Her awe leaks through the cell phone like a warm tide, and it helps calm the swirling chaos in my chest. When we finally say our goodbyes, I settle back in my seat to wait for the caviar and perhaps another glass of champagne too.
Chapter
Four
JO
Eight hours later, some caviar, two glasses of champagne, a delicious English breakfast, a ton of coffee, and a lovely nap, we land on another private airstrip in the United States of America. The time is 12.30am EST.
An official comes onto the plane and inspects my passport and gives me his nod of approval. Apparently, I’m clear to enter the country. I’m guided off the plane by one of the airport staff. There is no customs or baggage aisle to negotiate, and I’m taken directly to a waiting room to find a middle-aged man with iron-gray hair waiting for me. He is impeccably dressed in a dark suit, with thin framed steel glasses halfway down his nose.
“Gavin Hampstead,” he says, holding his hand out. For some reason, I expected his hand to be cool, but it is warm against my skin. “Welcome to New York, Miss Button.”
“Thank you.”
As I withdraw my hand, he smiles, but there’s a graveness to it that instinctively makes my stomach knot.
“I’m very sorry,” he says quietly. “But I’m afraid your father passed away while you were in transit.”
His words are unexpected and leave me strangely hollow and detached. Grief is supposed to hit harder, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I feel a tidal wave of loss? But the man was a stranger, the father I never knew. Even so, the moment doesn’t leave me entirely without feelings. There is confusion, definitely that, and a soft twist of something that feels like guilt and sorrow rolled together. My lips press into a thin line.
“I … I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time,” I murmur.
“It’s not your fault. You did your best,” Gavin says sincerely. “He left instructions for you when he realized you wouldn’t make it in time. He wanted you to follow through with certain steps.”