The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(132)

A half-page photograph comes up.

Christopher Miles Breaks Miss Ordinary’s Heart for a Supermodel.

There’s a huge photo of Hayden in the park. I’m sitting beside her on the park bench. She’s crying, and I look like I’m angry. Then beside it is a photo of me and Amira Conrad, a model who is dating one of my friends. I ran into her at the bar in a restaurant at lunch the other day. The photo is of me with my arm around her, snapped at precisely the moment I kissed her hello. I’m smiling at her, and she’s smiling back at me. We look totally in love.

My blood boils.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper angrily.

“Any news from Hayden?” Jameson asks.

“Nope.”

“This really doesn’t look good.”

“You think?” I explode. “Goodbye.” I hang up and scroll through my phone. My finger hovers over Hayden’s name . . . she might not even see the paper . . . and then . . . my heart sinks.

It doesn’t matter even if she does.

We’re over.

She doesn’t want me . . . or my life.

One day I will have to move on, and so will she. My heart twists at the thought of some country bumpkin being able to give her the life that I couldn’t . . . as much as I wish I could have.

I imagine her living on a large farm with heaps of wild and carefree kids and being happy, and I smile sadly. I want that for her. I want her to have everything she ever wanted. She deserves to be happy.

I put my phone back down.

My gaze goes to the window and London buzzing way down below. She’s a million depressing miles away.

Buzz sounds my intercom.

“Yes.”

“Are you coming back?” Elouise asks.

Shit . . . the meeting.

“On my way.”



I sit at my desk and stare out the window. People are talking, coming and going, and things are happening, but my mind is a million miles away.

On her.

Always on her.

Six weeks is a long time. Too long.

It’s not getting better; it’s getting worse. There’s a noose tightening around my neck that I can’t shake. The only time I’m happy is when I’m talking to Eddie, but I haven’t been able to reach him for a week now, and I’m getting worried. Why is his phone going straight to voice mail?

I glance at my watch. I might call the hostel to see when he’s working next. I’ll call Howard, the manager.

I google the number and dial as I begin to pace back and forth. “Hello, Barcelona Backpackers.”

“Hello, can I speak to Howard, please?”

“Just a minute.” I hear the line go through to an extension.

“Hello, Howard speaking.”

“Howard,” I reply, “it’s Christo.”

“Hey.” He laughs. “How are you, man?”

“Good, good. How are you?”

“Same shit, different day. All fine here.”

“Listen, sorry to bother you. I’m trying to get ahold of Eddie, but his phone isn’t even ringing.”

“Oh yeah . . . it got stolen.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks. I know how upset he’d be. “I wondered what happened. I’ve been calling and texting him, but no reply.”

“No point texting,” he replies casually.

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . he can’t read.”

“What?” I frown.

“He can’t read or write. You know that.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I snap. “Of course he can.”

“Christo . . . you know he’s homeless, right?”

“What?” I whisper. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he replies casually. “No shit. He’s an orphan.”

I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears.

“His parents are both . . . dead?” I gasp.

“His father took off before he was born, and his mother died in a car accident when he was eight, or something. No surviving grandparents or aunts or uncles. He was in the foster care system for a while but got put with assholes and ended up running away.”

I drop to the chair at the desk, shocked to a horrified silence.

“But where does he sleep?” I whisper through a lump in my throat.

“In a deserted house around the corner from the hostel.”

I stand. “Where is it?”

“It’s almost directly behind the hostel. It’s boarded up. You can’t miss it.”

I stay on the line, shocked to silence.

Dear god.

“Don’t tell him I called, okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, okay.”

“When is he working next?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Thanks.” I hang up and stare at the wall in horror.

What the fuck?

Barcelona

The Uber pulls to the curb. “Just let me out here,” I tell the driver.

I’ve never gotten on a plane so quickly. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I had to come.

I have to see him.

I walk around the corner and see the old deserted house.

I’m brimming with emotion; how can such a beautiful kid have such a horrible life and never tell me a word about it? I thought we were best friends.