Page 79 of Seven Lost Summers
After that, his gaze lifts straight to me.
A strangled sound slips out of me, caught between a gasp and a groan.
I snatch up the lacy evidence of my suffering and shove everything back into the suitcase as if I’m cramming my dignity in with it.
People are watching.
I catch a few snickers, some muffled laughs, and soon a guy calls out something crude behind me. I want to turn around and tell him to fuck off, to choke on his own tongue, but I don’t. I’m too mortified to even lift my head.
I knot my hoodie around the suitcase, praying it holds.
It doesn’t.
Not really. The corners still gape open, a sock rebelliously poking out as if it’s ready to make another run for it.
I keep my eyes forward and speed-walk out of baggage claim, dragging my disaster of a suitcase behind me. Each wheel thumps against the tiles, a fucking drumbeat announcing my shame to the world.
I keep my chin up and pretend I’m not dying inside. Even though I absolutely am.
I don’t stop.
I don’t glance back.
If I pretend this never happened, perhaps it’ll disappear from existence.
Unlikely. But a girl can dream.
I keep my head down as I move through the airport, gripping my half-destroyed suitcase as if it’s not actively trying to humiliate me again. Kit told me where to find my driver, and that’s exactly where I’m going. No detours. No eye contact. No more moments that’ll haunt me at three in the morning for the rest of my life.
And that’s when I see them.
I freeze, my pulse kicking up as my eyes lock onto Nate and Theo standing only a few feet ahead. Their heads are tilted close, attention fixed on Theo’s phone. They haven’t noticed me yet, and I know I should keep moving before they raise their heads and catch me staring.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because fuck.
They’re gorgeous. Both of them.
I forgot how good they look together. How they carry that effortless, bad-boy energy, as if it’s stitched into their DNA.
Theo grips his phone in one hand, the other flexing at his side, veins pronounced, ink shifting with every subtle movement. His hair is wild and untamed, and that mouth… God, that mouth, the way it curves into a smirk so slow and smug it’s practically foreplay. He carries himself differently now. Broader. Looser. The hoodie-wearing boy who once disappeared into shadows learned how to own the room instead. Fame didn’t only give him confidence, it carved it into every inch of him. And fuck if it doesn’t suit him too well.
And Nate, fuck.
He’s all angles and sin, sharp jawline cut from arrogance, a mouth set in that half-smirk that’s wrecked a hundred girls before breakfast. That blonde hair… a mess of fingers and recklessness, tousled enough to make you wonder who got to touch it last. He carries a presence that makes rooms fall silent and pulses race. Black ripped jeans cling to long legs, a fitted tee stretched across his chest, silver rings flashing on his fingers…trouble you want to taste. The tattoos climbing his arms don’t merely peek, they tease, bold and unapologetic. When he moves, it’s with a swagger that erases the possibility of seeing anyone else.
They’re rockstars now.
Untouchable.
Larger than life.
And here I am, standing in an airport with my dignity stuffed into a half-broken suitcase and my nerves shot to hell.
Awesome.
