Page 98 of One Pucking Surprise
“Wyatt. Ask Chloe what flight Lainey is on. Right now.”
He groans. “Dude, we just landed in Hawaii.”
“Wyatt, my future is in your hands right now.”
“That’s not fair, Darling.”
“Come on, Banks. I’m on my way to the airport.”
“You’re cutting it close, man. It’s 4:48 PM, and her flight leaves at 6.”
“I’ll run red lights if I have to. Just get me the info.”
“Fine! But you owe me big time. And you better drive safe!”
I hear muffled voices as Wyatt speaks to Chloe.
“Chloe, you said Lainey is flying out tonight, right?”
“Oh, you just reminded me. I need to text her. Her flight is leaving soon.”
“What airline is she on? Is she flying first class like we did? Should we have upgraded her ticket?”
I grit my teeth as Wyatt keeps prying. Just give me the damn flight info.
“Aww, that’s sweet of you, Wyatt,” Chloe replies. “She took Delta. I think it’s Flight 1567 to Orlando.”
I hang up immediately, flooring the gas pedal.
The clock reads 5:45 PM as I screech into the LAX departure area, hitting my hazards before running toward the Delta counter. There’s aline of people, but I shove past them, earning a few glares.
“Hey! I was next, dude!” someone protests.
“Sorry,” I say, turning briefly. “I’m trying to stop my girlfriend from leaving. I need to tell her I love her.”
The man’s expression shifts as recognition dawns. “Go ahead, Mr. Darling.”
The woman behind the counter stares at me, wide-eyed. “Oh my God, you’re Zach Darling.”
“I am.” I glance at her name tag. “Donna. Hi. I need your help. My girlfriend is on Flight 1567 to Orlando. I need to stop her before she leaves.”
Donna’s enthusiasm dims as she checks her computer. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Darling, but Flight 1567 just left.”
“What?” My heart sinks. “But it’s not 6 PM yet.”
“They departed early. I’m so sorry.”
I press my hands to my face, the weight of it all hitting me at once. “I’m too late,” I mutter.
“I can find you a flight to Orlando,” Donna offers.
The man from the line places a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, man.”
“No. It’s fine.” I force a tight smile, stepping away from the counter. “Thanks, Donna.”
Iparkintheprivate garage of my penthouse, dragging my feet toward the elevator. Every step feels like lead, and by the time I reach my floor, the weight of my failure is crushing.
When the elevator doors slide open, I freeze.
