The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3)(121)

The room spins. “To where?”

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out.”

“What are you talking about?” I throw my hands up. “She has to work tomorrow.”

He screws up his face. “You dumb fuck, she resigned last Wednesday, she’s taking a job overseas. If you’d have bothered to come back from your artist’s bed, you would already know this.”

The earth spins on its axis.

My nostrils flare as I battle for control.

He shakes his head, with a deep exhale. “Just, get out, man. You’ve fucked it.” He glances at his watch.

“Where is she, tell me,” I demand.

“You’re too late, she will have already checked in.”

My eyes widen, her plane hasn’t left yet. “I can still catch her then.” I turn and run for the car.

“I didn’t say that,” he calls after me. “She doesn’t want to see you,” I hear in the distance as I dive in the backseat. “Heathrow Airport, quick,” I cry.

Andrew pulls out into the traffic with speed and I dial Kate’s number. Ring, ring . . . ring, ring . . . ring, ring.

“Come on, pick up. Pick up,” I whisper. It rings out and I dial her number again. I imagine her staring at her phone ignoring my call and my fury begins to boil.

At her, at me . . . at this entire fucked-up situation.

Why did she run out in the middle of the night, what was she thinking?

When this is all over, I’m going to kill her . . . that’s if I don’t have a heart attack beforehand. I peer through the windshield. “Drive faster.”

“I am.” Andrew huffs as he changes lane, then he changes lane again and I dial Kate’s number with my heart in my throat.

Please pick up, baby.

It rings out again. “Answer your fucking phone, Kathryn,” I yell as I hit my phone on the back of the seat in anger.

Andrew’s eyes flick up to mine in the rearview mirror. “Don’t fucking start!” I growl.

He puts his foot down and we fly through the traffic, and half an hour later we pull up at the airport.

I dive out of the backseat and run in, my eyes scanning the check-in lines as I turn in a 360.

“Where are you?” I whisper to myself. “Kate.” I begin to panic that I’m not going to find her, there are too many people. “Don’t do this, please.” I run along the back of the check-in queues as I search for her. I get to one end and run back to where I began: perhaps she’s already gone through.

I run to the security checkpoint and stand in line. “Come on, come on,” I mutter. I look around the line to the security guards, working at a snail’s pace.

Hurry the fuck up.

I run my hands through my hair in a complete panic. Every minute that ticks past . . . is a minute I’ve lost to stop her.

Finally I get to the checkpoint and walk through the scanner, and it dings.

Fuck.

“Just step back through sir.”

“I don’t have time for this,” I stammer. I go back through the scanner, it dings again, and I bend and tear off my shoes and throw them to the side, rip my belt off and hurl it on the floor. I go back through the scanner and no alarm goes off.

“Thank fuck.” I pick up my belongings and tuck them under my arm and I run as fast as I can, until I get to an intersection. Six huge corridors go in different directions leading to the departure gates.

No.

I swallow the lump in my throat as I look at my options: what way should I go?

Umm. “Which way?” I’m panting as I gasp for breath. “Right.” I run to the right down a corridor. This is hopeless, I’m never going to find her. “Fuck’s sake.”

I keep running and I just happen to glance to the side and I see the back of Kate, just as she goes through the boarding gate. “Kate,” I cry as I take off in that direction. “Kate.”

She doesn’t hear me and she goes through the double doors.

“Kate,” I yell as loud as I can. People turn and stare and I get to the flight attendants who are doing the check-in.

I gasp for air. “I need to get someone off the plane,” I pant.

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s impossible.”

“No.” I put my hand on my chest. Fuck, I can’t breathe. “You don’t understand, it’s an emergency.”

“You’re too late.”

“No,” I yell. “Kate. I’m here,” I cry. “Come back.”

Two burly security guards come and stand beside me. “Is there a problem here, sir?”

I look between them as I gasp for air. “My girlfriend.” I pant, and point to the flight. “Need . . . to . . . stop . . . her.”

The guards exchange looks and with an eye roll, one of them says, “Leave now or you will be escorted from the building, sir.”

Deflation fills me and I drop my shoes and belt and put my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath.

Fuck it . . . she’s gone . . .

But where to? I glance up and see the flight destination.

Honolulu

Flight 245

American Airlines

I stand with renewed purpose, put my shoes on, and roll my belt into my hand. “Thanks.” I march off. Fuckers.