I strip off my suit coat, tossing it into the back as I reach for the top button on my shirt. “I’m going to need your sweater, Eddy. As soon as we pull up, just strip it off and toss it over, all right?”
He casts a startled look my way before turning his attention back to the road. “Do I want to know what you have planned? Or will I want plausible deniability?”
“Definitely the latter,” I say. “I’m going to do something mad, but…it’s for love, so it’s forgivable, right?”
“Love makes most things forgivable,” he agrees. “And I think she’ll forgive you, Olly. Once you explain. I really do.”
I hope he’s right, but just in case…
Well, I intend to put all my cards on the table and see if love reallyisall around.
Or if I’ll be spending the rest of my Happy Christmas miserable and alone.
Chapter Nineteen
EMILY
I’m in hell.
The Brit Air queue at Heathrow, two days before Christmas, is a special circle of travel hell. And bizarrely, all of the people suffering in the line ahead of mechoseto enter it of their own free will.
I would rather spend the holidays alone in a hole than travel this close to the big day.
But I can’t spend them in London, so…here I am. In hell, inching forward at a snail’s pace and praying the woman at the counter can be convinced to sell me a ticket this close to takeoff. It’s too late to buy one online, but still three hours before the plane is set to board, and I don’t have any luggage to check.
I don’t have any luggage at all.
It’s all either lost or abandoned.
I couldn’t bring myself to go back to Oliver’s flat to fetch the rest of my things. I couldn’t risk seeing him again, being forced to confront him and the evidence of my own stupidity.
I’m not ready to face that yet.
The depth of my naïveté is too painful.
I can’t believe I trusted that he truly thought I was “brilliant.” Can’t believe I assumed he knew me well enough to realize hisinterference would be offensive, let alone well enough to have real feelings. I can’t believe I thought he was in love with me, and I really can’t believe IstillthinkI’min love withhim.
Or that the end of a fake, week-long relationship can possibly hurt this much…
The pain gnaws away in my chest, stealing all the holiday joy, leaving me feeling truly wretched and alone.
I have to get home. As quickly as possible.
Home, where I can lock the door and hide under the covers and cry the pain away in peace without any paparazzi around to document my shame.
Hold it together, Darling. Just ten more hours, give or take, and you can crumble in private, as God intended.
As the line inches forward again, I clutch my coat and briefcase for strength, thanking the benevolent forces of the universe that I always carry my passport on my person. The guidebooks tell you not to, but I find I’m asked for my passport far more often than one might assume—at hotels, museums, the pharmacy after I forgot my birth control prescription the last time I was here.
The world is an increasingly distrustful, passport-checking, outsider-hating place.
Maybe that’s why Oliver did what he did, because he knew an outsider wouldn’t get anywhere in London without help. Maybe it wasn’t because he secretly thinks I’m a loser.
But even if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter. A lie is a lie, and I’m a list maker, a fact checker, a source verifier, not a liar. I can’t build a life with someone who lies and manipulates, even if they do it with good intentions.
No.
This is it.
