by A. J. Pine
Flight 2091 from England to Athens: Landed. Seat 23B: Occupied.
“He didn’t get on the second plane,” she said, her voice flat. Then a sense of panic kicked in. “What if something happened to him?”
Thea put her hand over Elaina’s, the one that gripped her phone like a vise.
“How long was his layover? He must have just missed his connecting flight. He’ll be on the next one out.” Thea grabbed both of Elaina’s hands. “There is a flight almost every hour from Athens to here.”
Elaina loosened her grip, swiped the lock from her phone screen, and began scrolling through her contacts.
“What are you doing?” Thea asked, but she didn’t answer. She found his name and pressed call.
It rang four times before voicemail picked up, which meant the phone was in range, an indication of being on land rather than in the air.
“It’s Duncan. I’m no’ answerin’ because I’m on mah way to marry Elaina. So if you’re no’ at the wedding, then piss off for a bit while I’m with mah lady. I’ll ring ya next week.”
Elaina took a deep breath and a smile crossed her lips. This was a good sign, his outgoing message. He was looking forward to marrying her. Of course he was giving up a lot to be with her, but he had wanted this. He had chosen a life with her in Greece.
Then her phone buzzed with another notification. When she looked at the screen, her heart sank.
Duncan: Forgive me. I couldn’t get on the second plane.
She waited, sure there would be more after those nine words.
One minute. Two. Three. The silence screamed as her heart sank. Then the floor dropped out from under her, and for a moment she swore she was falling. I couldn’t get on the second plane.
Duncan was okay. He just wasn’t coming to Greece, which meant…what? There was a problem with customs? He forgot something in Scotland? Or…dread weighted her stomach as she arrived at the most obvious explanation… He didn’t want to marry her.
She could have made herself believe he hadn’t heard the phone ring, that maybe he was waiting for better reception, or maybe he had lost his phone. But silent as it was, the text came through loud and clear.
She couldn’t let Thea see her falter, couldn’t let anyone see her fall apart. She had to save face and then figure out what came next. So she did what she did best and let the anger swallow the hurt.
Elaina banged her head against the door. “Vlákas!”
“English?” Thea said meekly, and Elaina’s eyes burned.
“Stupid!” Elaina shouted. “How could I be so fucking stupid?”
She held the phone for her cousin to see.
Elaina stalked back to her dressing table. Soft. Thea was right. For three years she’d let Duncan, let loving Duncan, whittle away at her stony exterior, and how had that left her?
Vulnerable.
She thought her worries were unfounded, just pre-wedding jitters. But maybe deep below that tough exterior, her heart really had turned to marshmallow—a trusting marshmallow with a missing groom.
Well, soft was out of the fucking question now.
I am not a marshmallow.
She didn’t even like marshmallows—Jordan made her taste some jarred version of the American treat—but that was beside the point. Elaina needed to get Duncan to Thessaloniki and soon—before she had to explain to her family and his why he wasn’t coming. Duncan would have to tell her, face-to-face, that he was bowing out of this. He would have to look all their guests in the eye and explain to them why they would not be rehearsing tonight—why there would be no wedding tomorrow. Elaina may have lost the battle, but she wasn’t going down with the ship.
She scrolled through her contacts once again, still ignoring Thea’s confusion. As expected, this call went directly to voicemail. But when the plane landed, Elaina would hopefully be the first message in her queue.
“Jordan. It is Elaina. Duncan is…missing. I think he might be in Athens. I need your help to get him back here so he can leave me properly, face-to-face. Just—call me when you land. I will be here.”
She collapsed into the chair, blew out a long breath, and looked at her cousin.
“Let’s do this,” Elaina said, grabbing Thea’s makeup bag and getting to work on the dark circles under her eyes. “I want everything to be perfect today.”
Thea closed her mouth, the one that had been hanging open since Elaina stood from the chair minutes ago. Then she mustered a soft, “But, Elaina—”
She cut her off.
“He needs to see what he is missing, what he is giving up, and that he did not get the best of me.”
But she was sure her cousin heard the small break in her voice on that last word. Because the truth was, Duncan brought out the very best in Elaina, and she had already given those parts of herself to him. He would always have the best of her, but she’d never let him know.
Chapter Five
Duncan
Duncan stretched as he exited the jet bridge into the terminal. He set his messenger bag down on an empty chair and turned to face the floor-to-ceiling windows and the plane from which he’d just come. As passengers disembarked, they smiled at him, and he offered the same in return.
A little more than three hours, and Scotland was gone. Just like that. His home was there, and Greece was here. The sun shone so brightly, he had to shield his eyes. That would take some getting used to. Not that Aberdeen never saw the sun, but there was something different about the sun in Greece, even in December.
Duncan wasn’t visiting Greece this time. Greece was his new home. He smiled at first, but then swallowed as his throat tightened.
Greece is my new home.
For fuck’s sake. Duncan lived here now. Well, not in Athens. But one more plane trip—a really freaking short one—and he’d be in Thessaloniki, which was his new home.
He pulled at the collar of his wool jumper, the Greek sun obviously melting him. In a swift movement, he tore off the garment, leaving only his Aberdeen Uni T-shirt and his jeans. That felt better. Of course. It was just the jumper. He could breathe now. But when he turned to the chair next to him, ready to stuff it into his messenger bag, the bag was gone.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he whispered, but as he finished the phrase, he heard a squeak of rubber on tile, and he turned.
There was the thief, with Duncan’s bag slung over his shoulder. The bloke from seat 23A.
“Fuck ya doin’?” Duncan yelled, and then 23A was off like a goddamn racehorse.
So was Duncan McAllister.
He was not a runner, not by choice. Duncan’s idea of exercise was a slow hike up to the beach or a mental workout in front of the telly with his PlayStation. But he was suddenly a short-distance sprinter. He had his hand around the strap of the bag in less than fifteen seconds, and 23A introduced his fist to his face just as quickly.
Duncan was sure he was standing seconds ago, but now he was flat on his back, the skin and bone below his left eye throbbing and his head spinning. Over him stood a prepubescent teen and the bloke from 23A, conversing in whispered shouts.
Duncan made out, “Attacked me,” and, “Detain you both for questioning,” and, “Are you okay, sir?”
He thought that last one was for him, so he nodded. Not because he was okay—he was pretty fucking far from okay—but because when a stranger asked if you were okay, it was easier to say yes than to explain all the reasons to the contrary, and though Duncan had a growing list of why he was miles from okay, he was too dazed to voice them.
The prepubescent-looking one helped him to his feet. The sight must have been a laugh, a git just past his A Levels lifting a twenty-five-year-old man from the ground—and quite a strapping twenty-five-year-old man, if Duncan had any say about it. Once standing, though, things went blurry. Then he swore he saw two of everything. And after that, it all went black.
Duncan sat up with a start.
“It’s my bloody bag!” he called out, he realized, to an empty room. Dunca
n lay on a small rollaway-type bed in what looked like a doctor’s examining room, his head propped on two pillows. He took a few deep breaths as his head swam. Where the hell was he?
The door opposite his bed opened, and a man dressed in all white entered carrying two miniature cups.
“For your head, Mr.…” he said, smiling underneath a thick black mustache, and Duncan didn’t argue. His head throbbed, so he was willing to take whatever the man was offering. He dropped two small pills in his mouth and chased them down with the water that was in the other cup.
“McAllister. Duncan McAllister.”
The man nodded. “This is good,” he said. “You couldn’t answer that question twenty minutes ago, and you do not have ID on you, sir. We did not know who to contact.”
What was this guy talking about? Of course Duncan knew his own bloody name. If only he could figure out where he was, he could be on his way to…to…
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Duncan asked. And where the hell am I meant to be?
The man’s brow furrowed, and he pulled a penlight from his pocket and clicked it on.
“If you’re ready to stay awake, Mr. McAllister, I’d like to finish your exam. We were close to sending you to hospital, but without ID it is very difficult to—”
Duncan stood, swayed, thought better of it, then dropped back on his bum on the bed.
“It’s in my bag,” he said, letting his head fall against the pillows again. He was so close to surrendering, to letting his eyes close, when he bolted upright again.
“Christ, what did that arsehole do to me?” It all came flooding back—the plane, his seatmate running off with his bag, his head hitting the floor.
What time was it? Had he missed his connecting flight? Did Elaina know where he was?
“I have a concussion, aye?” he asked. This was no doctor’s office. He knew that now. It was some makeshift clinic or first-aid station. God, if they’d sent him to hospital, he’d be filling out paperwork the rest of the day. “Wouldn’t be my first,” he joked. “If you could get my bag, I’ll give you ID, whatever you need. I just have to catch my next plane. Getting married tomorrow.”
The doctor, nurse, clinician—whoever he was—forced a smile. Duncan squinted to read the name on his tag—Feodor.
“I am sorry, Mr. McAllister. But your bag—the bag that was found on the other gentleman—is being detained. And so are you.”
Duncan sat up. “I’m sorry, what? Detained? Brilliant. That bastard takes my bag, knocks me the fuck out, and you’re detaining me?” He rubbed the back of his neck and blinked hard, trying to clear his vision only to realize it was the swelling in his left eye that was making things all wonky. “Show me where my bag is being held bloody prisoner, and I’ll prove to you lot that it’s mine, and then I’ll be on my way. To get married.”
The resolve in Duncan’s voice impressed even him. It’s not like he was having second thoughts, but give a bloke a minute or two to collect himself when he’s up and leaving one home for another. That’s all he had done when he got off that plane, and look where it had gotten him. But he was sure now, no doubt in his mind, that this was where he belonged. Greece was where he belonged. Because Greece was where Elaina was, and she was his new home.
He scrambled for his phone in his front pocket. At least that wasn’t detained with everything else. When he unlocked the screen, he cursed at himself when he saw his nearly dead battery. Elaina insisted he wait until Greece to get a new phone on a local carrier, which was all fine and good except that his old phone barely held a charge anymore. Of course he had his charger with him—in his bag. Duncan wasn’t sure what Elaina was thinking at this point, but he had to let her know he was all right, that he was on his way. He saw he’d missed a call from her, but there wasn’t enough battery to check his voicemail and get a message to her, so he opted for the text.
Forgive me. I couldn’t get on the second plane.
The battery flashed red. Fuck. He wasn’t done typing, but he had to hit send and hope this was enough until he got to her.
It was more than an hour after he was supposed to get on that second plane when Duncan could finally walk without fear of blacking out again.
“It’s my bag,” he insisted as soon as he was seated across the table from the man who’d stolen it.
The security bloke, the one he vaguely remembered from before he was knocked bloody unconscious, slid his bag toward him on the table. Duncan squinted with his good eye at the guy’s name tag—Kostas.
“Then I’m sure you can unlock it,” he said to Duncan. “This one says he shouldn’t have to without us providing him with legal aide, but if you feel differently—”
Duncan snatched the bag. Of course he felt differently. He’d open it, show everyone his passport, and end this bleeding cock-up of a morning.
He rolled the numbers into place, giving himself a mental pat on the back for programming the lock’s combination to tomorrow’s date, his wedding date.
The thirty-first of December. New Year’s Eve, the last time they’d be Duncan McAllister and Elaina Tripoli. The day she’d take his name.
3-1-1-2. And click.
Where was the click?
He reset the lock and rolled the barrels into place again. 3-1-1-2.
Nothing.
He tried reversing the order. Maybe he’d done it the American way with the month first.
1-2-3-1.
Duncan gave the lock a violent yank. He shook the bag. My fucking bag.
“Cut it off,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s broken. Cut the thing off, and I’ll show you it’s mine. I can tell you everything in there, including my bloody passport. Just cut. It. Off.”
Kostas retrieved the bag.
“That’s the next step, sir, since it looks like your bag doesn’t want to open for you. But I have to find a tool that will cut a small padlock.”
Duncan ran a hand through his hair, wanting to yank it out. “A bolt cutter. You need a bleedin’ bolt cutter.”
Kostas nodded, and Duncan was sure the kid had no clue what a bolt cutter was or where to get one. This was a joke, right? A pre-wedding laugh at his expense. Yet no one was smiling.
“I should get a phone call, aye? One call?” This would be his last chance to get word out to someone who could end this ridiculous morning.
Kostas raised his brows and said, “Yes! Like an American crime show!”
“My phone is dead,” Duncan told him. “I’m going to need yours.”
Kostas seemed all too eager to hand Duncan his phone, enjoying what must be the most excitement he’d had since starting his job.
Duncan rolled his eyes, but to be honest, that’s where the idea of the phone call came from. All that mattered was that Kostas said yes. As much as he wanted to phone Elaina and explain everything to her, she had the whole wedding party to attend to. He couldn’t ask her to help him. But he could call Griffin. Griffin would be getting to Thessaloniki soon, if he wasn’t already there.
Shite. What was his number? Duncan’s phone was crap with international calls, so he always had to type the number in when he used his international phone card. He squeezed his eyes shut, head and cheek still throbbing, and concentrated. He wasn’t even sure he’d get through, but he had to try.
“Yes!” he yelled as the numbers came to him, and he tapped the keypad furiously as Kostas and the bloke from 23A stared on.
The call went right to voicemail, but Griffin would have to be in range soon, right?
“Oi, mate,” Duncan began. “I’m in a right mess at the moment and was hoping you could help. Athens airport, security holding cell number one. I owe ya one. I’ll explain when you get here. If you get here. Shite, can you get here?”
Duncan ended the call but snuck in a quick text to Noah as well, his brain suddenly swimming with numbers, Elaina’s included. He could go for broke if Kostas didn’t notice, try to explain the situation, to assure her he was only delayed but that he was tryin
g to get to her.
But how did he put it all in a text from someone else’s phone? What would he say? That he let his nerves get the best of him, enough so that he didn’t see his bag being stolen by the wanker still claiming it was his?
He had spent years proving to Elaina that he wasn’t the boy who stole a birthday kiss that night in the pub. He was the man she’d always known he could be. But if she saw him right now, she’d run in the opposite direction, and he couldn’t blame her. Only a boy could fuck up as much as he had in such a short amount of time, and if he didn’t get that bag back, there would be no point in showing up in Thessaloniki today. There’d be no point in any of it.
But before he could even type out her number, Kostas snatched the phone back from him.
“One call,” the lanky git said. “How about you?” Kostas asked the real thief, but the guy just grunted out a no.
This was it. Duncan was so close to where he needed to be yet so very far away. All he knew was that nothing about today felt like home.
Chapter Six
Maggie
Maggie adjusted the small airplane pillow against the window and stretched as best she could in the confined space. It took her a few blinks to open her eyes completely, and when she did, Griffin’s soft gaze was on her, those caramel eyes drinking her in.
“What?” she asked, sure that he’d caught her snoring or drooling, which really wouldn’t be that big of a deal. He’d seen her at her worst and still taken on the challenge of loving her. Maggie had to remind herself that she didn’t have to be anyone but herself with him. She could just be.
He lifted the armrests that formed the barrier between them, then took her left leg and draped it over his right. Griffin let out a sigh and smiled.
“Don’t move,” she said, and then pulled her camera from the seatback pocket. Something about the way he looked at her made her want to capture this moment.
He chuckled as she snapped the photo.
“I’m glad you got some rest, but I have a confession,” he said, a glint in his eyes that made something in her gut tighten.
