Chapter One
Cassidy
My mother will disown me if I miss this flight.
Dramatic? Yes. But so is she.
I promised I’d be at her disposal all week to help with every painstaking detail of my sister Isabelle’s wedding. Mom’s standards for society gatherings sit about five million feet above sea level, and this one is the event to rule them all. The biggest day of her beloved oldest daughter’s life. Her chance to shine as mother of the bride.
If I screw this up… Let’s just say Los Angeles hath no fury like Francesca Bliss scorned.
Cold sweat beads above my brow as Trixie the Toyota and I drive another circuit of Charlotte Airport’s long-term parking lot. A volatile mix of snow and sleet—in spring, courtesy of a moody Mother Earth—swirls all around me, making it difficult to see farther than ten feet in any direction.
My plan to appease one mother, thwarted by another. Delightful.
Everything would’ve been fine if I’d made it here an hour ago, as I intended when I chose this particular night flight to bookend an awesome teaching opportunity. But highway traffic moved at a glacial pace for my entire drive from Stop, Drop, and Bop, and I was late leaving class. The dance students were Enthusiastic with a capital E, and I couldn’t very well run out on them when they wanted to keep filming my choreography.
Regardless, I cannot afford to miss a flight that I could barely afford in the first place.
I circle the lot like a ground-dwelling hawk, waiting for my opening. If I don’t find a spot soon, I may abandon Trixie in the middle of an aisle and make a run for the shuttle. Either that, or mow over the motorcycle that decided it was okay to take up two spots. Two, when even one feels like too much space to afford a glorified scooter.
Not that Trixie could mow down anything. My car is about as trustworthy as the pull-out method and threatens death every time I take her more than a few miles.
A glint of silver at the very end of the row catches my eye as a minivan reverses out of a space in a slow crawl. An end cap is about to open up. Perfection in parking spot form. I could cry with relief.
Gaze fixed on the van, I zoom down the aisle as I breathe through my jitters. I need to pace myself with these nerves. Traveling is the easy part of going home. I fled Los Angeles two and a half years ago to escape my mother’s overbearing orbit, yet this wedding and my role as maid of honor have sucked me right back in. But since it’s my job to ensure this is the champagne-wishes soiree of Isabelle’s dreams, I’ll endure the stressors with a smile.
Sure, I have nightmares about chocolate fountains overflowing, DJs losing playlists, forgetting important tasks, and socially misstepping and embarrassing myself. As the family black sheep, I’m no stranger to messing up. But I’ll keep those fears to myself and make it work. I’ll make a toast, eat toast, drink until I’m toasted—whatever my sister wants until the event wraps late Sunday. I want her to love her big day.
I activate my blinker, wind the wheel, ease the gas—
Out of nowhere, a Jeep Grand Wagoneer flies around the corner, inserting itself into my spot so swiftly the van hasn’t even had a chance to exit the aisle. A strangled cry leaves my mouth as I punch the roof with my fist. A shower of probably dust, possibly asbestos, rains onto the center console.
Crap on a dry, saltless cracker. This can’t be happening. That Jeep driver had to have seen me and my blinker. An ’82 banana-yellow Toyota Tercel doesn’t go unnoticed.
I should let it go and keep searching. Any other day, I would. But right now, I need the win.
As soon as the van vacates the area, I pull forward and throw my car into park directly behind the all-terrain offender. I’m so close to the Jeep, the automatic trunk almost hits my car as it glides open.
Scrambling out of the driver’s seat, I grip the mirror to steady myself. By the time I’m upright and staring over the top of my car, the owner emerges.
Oh.
The sound catches in my throat.
My gaze traces the cut of his fancy coat first. It hits just above the knee when he straightens to full height and has the distinct sheen of a wool-cashmere blend. He’s gloved, scarved, beanied, and dressed to the nines. Even his glasses are stylish, rimmed in black, perched on a perfectly sculpted face.
If I was in the business of judging a book by its cover, I’d call his ensemble excessively corporate, apart from his scarf. Something about the red-and-white-striped knitwear hugging his neck—how very Where’s Waldo? of him—when the rest of him is decked out in inky black suggests a hint of whimsy and free will. As in, he staunchly abides by the rules of civilized society, but he’s willing to walk on the wild side just this once to steal my spot.
This is a man who does not need a win, because those clothes and that pretty face scream forever first place.
I snap shut my mouth and recover the thoughts he knocked out of my head. “Hi—uh, excuse me?”
He freezes, a posh deer in the headlights.
“I had my blinker on, and I was just about to pull in.” My voice is blown sugar, sweet and a breath away from breaking. “Please, I really need that spot. I’m in a huge hurry and—well, you seem like a reasonable—”
“I prefer Whirlpool, but it’s up to you.” He closes his door. “You’re the one who has to use it every day.”
I look left, right, and center. “Huh?”
“Do you really think that’s safe? I can have it replaced,” he continues, removing a black tote bag from his trunk. “We’re probably long overdue.”
Confusion ripples through me as I try to make sense of his statement. Am I having a stress-induced meltdown? I wave my ungloved, now-freezing hand to make sure I have his attention as snow clings to my sleeves. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but I said you took my spot.” I smack the top of Trixie. “And I’d be grateful if you’d reconsider. I’ve been searching for twenty minutes for a place to park, and I’m desperate to make my flight.”
He turns his head, lifts his beanie, and flashes me an AirPod.
My cheeks heat. “I see you’re on a call, but—”
“Hold on, Sophie.” He turns his gaze to me. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I got this spot fair and square. And I’m kind of in a hurry. Is there something else you need?”
I blanch. If I look like a ma’am, it’s time for a night serum. And he’s all but ignored my plea. “I’m in a hurry, too! This is my space, and you know it. I used my blinker!”
“I also used my blinker.” He gestures at Trixie as he hitches the tote bag higher on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, yours wasn’t blinking. You should probably get that looked at. For safety purposes.”
Before I can so much as open my mouth to respond, he removes a black suitcase from his immaculately clean trunk, wheels around, and lifts his key fob in the air. The Jeep locks with a loud double-beep as he struts off, dragging his luggage behind him.
My head tips back and I curse the sky. As I descend further into panic, red taillights cut through the haze. An engine roars to life two rows over.
Someone’s leaving.
I throw myself back in the driver’s seat of my car and slam my door shut. The latch doesn’t catch, so I slam it three more times until it does. The clock mocks me from the dash, the only part of the console not broken. 7:26 p.m.
I soar through the lot at a reckless speed and claim the space.
Park the car. Race to security. Board the plane.
One item down, two to go.
Pulling my luggage behind me, I tread carefully toward the covered shuttle stop, wishing I could sprint. Curse these heeled boots and my desire not to flatline my entire dance career by slipping in a slush puddle and twisting my ankle.
A shuttle is idling. The headlights suggest as much, even if I can barely see the vehicle through the fog. The blurry outline of a person comes into view.
“Hold the door!” I cry, clomping like a snowshoer so I can strike the ground with even footfalls. I flail my free arm. “Please, hold the shuttle!”
That blurry outline of a human is wearing the Waldo scarf. I laser my focus, imagining it as a striped finish line.
The fabric whips out of sight as he boards.
I pull choppy breaths as I close in. My luggage slips out of my hand, and I stumble to recover it. Waldo may have screwed me over with the spot, but only a true jerk would leave someone out in the cold. He’ll tell the driver to wait, and people tend to listen to men who look like that.
The shuttle roars to life and pulls away from the curb. Leaving me in the slush-dust.
So much for my win.