Page 71 of Blindsided
“What changed your mind?” I ask her when we’re alone in the car. “About the delay, I mean.”
She considers this for a moment. “I think... I know what it’s like to rush into confrontation without thinking. When I found that photo of Mark and Lana, I immediately booked a flight to Ireland. I didn’t confront either of them, didn’t make a plan. I just ran.”
“And you regret that?”
“Not entirely,” she says, gazing out at the passing countryside. “But I wonder sometimes if I should have stayed, forcing them to face what they’d done. Take control of the narrative instead of letting them write it without me.”
Her words sink in, resonating with something inside me. Taking control of the narrative—isn’t that what I’ve been trying to do since finding that first letter? Instead of letting Tomas’s secrets define me, I’m actively pursuing the truth on my terms.
“You’re pretty wise for an Airplane Girl,” I tell her, earning a smile that warms me from the inside out.
The next three days at Wavecrest fall into an unexpected rhythm. Mornings are spent around the dining room table, with laptops and phones as we dig into Viktor Petrov’s background. Rory proves particularly adept at this research, unearthing details about the Russians’ business empire that range from concerning to downright alarming.
“He’s technically retired,” Rory explains on our second day, “but his son Mikhail runs everything now. Same operations, different names on theletterhead.”
“And what exactly are these operations?” Kori asks where she’s making coffee.
Rory and Declan exchange a look that speaks volumes. “On paper, import-export, shipping, some real estate,” Rory says carefully. “Off paper... Well, let’s say the Petrovs have never been too concerned with the legality of their business ventures.”
“So, they’re still dangerous,” I conclude.
“Potentially,” Declan agrees. “But they’re also legitimate businessmen now, with reputations to protect. They can’t just send hitmen after a woman who was supposed to marry into the family twenty years ago.”
“You hope,” Wren mutters.
Afternoons, we split up. Declan and Wren continue their research, while Rory and Kat explore the surrounding area, ostensibly scouting for potential threats but mostly enjoying what amounts to an unexpected vacation. And me? I find myself drawn to Kori like a magnet to true north.
We walked to the beach, where she found me buried. We hike along the coastal cliffs, the wind whipping her choppy hair into even more chaotic patterns. We sit on her porch in the evenings, watching the sun sink into the sea while sharing stories—her marketing career in Toronto, my nomadic existence before settling in the city notmore than a half-hour drive from her house, her childhood in London, my complicated relationship with the man I thought was my father.
On the third day, the rain keeps us indoors. The others have gone into the village for supplies, leaving Kori and me alone in the cottage. We’re in the kitchen, making lunch, when she asks the question I’ve been avoiding.
“Are you afraid to find her? Your sister?”
I pause in the act of slicing bread, considering my answer. “Yes,” I finally admit. “What if she wants nothing to do with us? What if she blames me for Tomas staying away all these years?”
“Why would she blame you?”
“Because he was protecting us both. If I didn’t exist, maybe he could have been with her openly.”
Kori shakes her head, stepping closer to me. “That’s not how it works. Tomas made his choices. Neither you nor Ella is responsible for them.”
She’s so close now that I can see the flecks of amber in her brown eyes and smell the subtle scent of her shampoo. Without thinking, I set down the knife and reach for her, my hands finding her waist. She doesn’t pull away.
“How did you get so smart?” I murmur, drawing her closer.
“Trial and error,” she says with a small smile. “Mostly error.”
And then I’m kissing her, or she’s kissing me—it doesn’t matter who starts it. What matters is the way she melts against me, the soft sound she makes when my hands slide up her back, the heat that builds between us with an intensity that surprises us both.
We stumble from the kitchen to the living room, never breaking contact. Her hands are under my shirt now, exploring the contours of my chest while I trail kisses down her neck. We collapse onto the sofa, her beneath me, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press against her.
“Is this okay?” I ask, pulling back just enough to see her face.
Her answer is to pull me down for another kiss, her hands now working at the buttons of my shirt. I help her, shrugging it off before reaching for the hem of her sweater. She sits up slightly, allowing me to pull it over her head, revealing a simple black bra that contrasts beautifully with her skin.
“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything.
A blush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she reaches for me again, pulling me back to her with a confidence that makes my heart race. My hands find the clasp of her bra, and she arches to help me remove it.
