Page 111 of Built to Fall
“We’ll be landing any minute. Just wait.”
So I wait. And wait. And wait. Until I feel the wheels hit the ground, and I immediately reach for the window shade.
Grant beats me to it, keeping it tightly shut with a smug grin. “Patience, Lina.”
“Why are you being so secretive?” I yank my hand back.
He smirks, clearly entertained. “You’ll see.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
The plane rolls to a stop. We’re finally here—whereverhereis.
Grant stands and holds out his hand. “Come on.”
I freeze, knowing this istoofriendly to be doing with him, but his hand extends even further, closing around mine with a gentle firmness.
I’m expecting to step out into the cold, but when we take the first step off the jet, I can tell it’s notascold as Boston. The wind is still biting, and there’s a light dusting of snow covering the ground. The small private airport is quiet, surrounded by woods, with a few old-fashioned lampposts casting a soft golden glow across the snow-dusted tarmac.
“I still feel like I’m being kidnapped,” I mutter as we walk toward a black SUV parked just off the runway, where a man in a tailored suit is holding the back door open.
“You came willingly.” Grant’s arm slips around me, pulling me closer to shield me from the wind.
“This is straight out of a Hallmark Christmas movie,” I whisper as we reach the SUV. “Are you secretly a prince or something?”
“You really think I’d be able to keep something like that a secret?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’reyou, Grant. You love secrets.”
He helps me into the car, then slides in beside me. The door closes, and the warm interior makes me sigh with relief. It smells faintly of pine and something sweet—like cinnamon or cloves.
“Can you tell me where we arenow?” I ask, turning toward him.
“You’ll know soon,” he responds. “It’s pretty unmistakable.”
I turn toward the window as we drive through a stretch of quiet road, the forest giving way to winding streets lined with colonial-style houses lit up with Christmas decorations. Twinkle lights wrap around white fences, wreaths hang from every door, and the occasional inn or bakery glows invitingly.
It’s peaceful. Picturesque. I feel like I’ve been dropped inside a snow globe.
As the car hums through the narrow streets, a light snow begins to fall. It hits the windows gently, the soft patter hypnotizing me. I feel my eyelids grow heavy, my head tilting toward the cold glass.
“Are you falling asleep?” Grant murmurs.
I let out a quiet groan.
“Because I’m not carrying you in,” he teases, though his voice is warm.
The thought of Grant’s arms around me—warm, protective, close—makes my stomach twist. Not in a gross way. In a terrifying, butterflies-in-my-stomach kind of way.
And I know hewouldcarry me if I asked him to.
A light nudge at my shoulder draws my attention. “Look,” he says quietly.
Through the windshield, I see it: a large, white house at the end of a cobblestone driveway. It has a wraparound porch strung with warm white lights and Adirondack chairs sitting side-by-side. A Christmas tree glows from the huge front window. There’s a wooden sign at the gate that reads:
THE ATLANTIS
I blink. “Wait… this is it?”
