Vanished: A Bad Boy Second Chance Romance (9 page)

              “Paris,” I say again. “A private jet. Don’t you make furniture?”

              His face twists as though I’ve caught him in a lie. No, not a lie, something else.

              “Yeah,” he says slowly. “My uncle died. He left me a bunch of money.”

              “Your uncle,” I say, smirking at him. I know he’s lying, but his speech has worked on me, and I am starting to trust him. “I’m not stupid, Joey. If you don’t want to tell me, fine. Don’t tell me. But don’t think of me as an idiot.”

              He smiles, “I would never.”

              He extends a hand to me and looks deep into my eyes. “So, Paris?”

              I shake my head at the absurdity of the situation. I can’t even believe I’m considering this. But just like in high school when I chose Joey over Brad, I feel like an entire world of possibilities has opened up to me again, and before I realize it, I’m taking his hand.

              “Paris,” I say.

              Cassidy would think I’m crazy.

              We step hand in hand out of my house, Joey carrying his backpack and my small suitcase I’d insisted on packing.

              “We can get you some clothes in Paris,” he’d told me, but I wasn’t about to go off without some essentials, so I’d taken a few minutes to pack.

              The night is cold and windy, and the sting of the breeze against my cheeks is adding to my excitement. But as we come down the walk to the curb, I don’t see a car. I see my neighbor’s truck, and a couple of regular cars owned by other people on the street, but I don’t see anything that could be his.

              As we reach the sidewalk, he takes a right and starts heading up the street.

              “Uh, Joey? Do you have a car? Or are you Superman and you’re going to fly me there on your back?”

              “Yeah, I’m just around the block,” he says, his pace quickening. He must be in a hurry; maybe he’s just as excited as me. It’s hard to picture him expressing that amount of emotion. He’s always just so cool, but this is a big event in both of our lives. He has to be feeling something.

              We take a right turn at the end of my street onto Greene Street and he leads me to a beat up pick up truck parked under a broken streetlight. Hardly the car I’d expected him to drive, but then again, I don’t know what I had expected.

              “Riding in style, huh?” I joke with him as he sets my bag in the back.

              “Wait until you see the plane,” he says with a quick smile, coming over to open my door for me. He pulls, but it sticks. He smirks at me, embarrassed, before yanking hard. The door screeches like grinding metal, but pops open. He gives me a sort of silly bow like a butler.

              “What a gentleman,” I say as I climb in. He pushes the door shut behind me, and I hear the same sound of metal on metal. He makes his way around the truck and pulls his door open. I hear the creak of rusty springs as he slides onto the bench seat next to me. The engine roars to life as he turns the key, and with a neck-breaking jolt forward, we speed off down the block.

              It’s not too long of a ride to the Manchester Airport, and we spend it mostly in silence, both of us clearly feeling our nerves. This is a big decision I’ve made, and part of me wonders if he was expecting me to shoot him down. He can’t
always
be so sure of himself, can he? I look over at him, searching his face for some sign of what’s to come, of what he’s feeling, but he’s giving me nothing. I guess I’m just going to have to go with it.

              The weather stripping on my window is going, and the cold night wind seeps in with an obnoxious whistle. By the time we reach the airport, I’m about fed up with this truck. Joey pulls into the lot and just keeps going, driving straight past visitor parking and up to a gate in the fence. With a curt wave to security, he just drives straight onto the tarmac and finally parks before a Gulfstream jet that’s waiting just off the runway.

              “What the Hell?” I say. He merely smiles and glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

              This is not normal. How is he able to do this? I look at him again, hoping he’ll give me some indication of what’s going on, but he just turns to me and winks, before shouldering his bag and hopping out.

              “Francis,” he says casually to a well-built man standing at the steps leading up to the jet. He tosses him the keys to the truck before lifting my suitcase from the back.

              “Good evening, sir,” he says politely.

              “Sir?” I say in surprise. Joey flashes me a cocky smile and extends a hand. I pause, then take it, and allow him to lead me toward the plane. This all feels so surreal as I take the stairs behind Joey. I duck, and enter the heated cabin. It’s not like a commercial airliner, with stuffy processed air that makes you sweat and feel uncomfortable. There’s something fresh and open about it, but maybe that’s because the interior is so unreal.

              Spacious would be an understatement. There are a few seats at the front of the cabin. They’re expensive, leather, obviously reclining, and are probably big enough to fit two of me. I wouldn’t be unhappy if one of those was my bed. Behind them is basically a couch against one wall, complete with its own hardwood coffee table across from it, which is surrounded by more enormous seats. A flat screen television hangs on one wall.

              There’s wood trim everywhere. Actual wood that looks like something out of a mansion in the Hamptons, not something you’d see in a plane. I’ve never seen anything like this. I bet the couch costs more than my entire apartment. There are even fresh flowers. I turn to Joey.

              “Your uncle must have been pretty loaded.”

              He just grins, and I slide onto the couch and stretch out, instantly blowing out a sigh of relief at how comfortable it is.

              “So I can lay here the whole flight?”

              “If you want to,” Joey says, taking one of the large chairs across the table from me. I look at him and think how nice it would be for him to come over and curl up beside me, wrap his strong arms around me and fall asleep. But I’m not totally ready for that yet. Well—I am, but I have to make him wait a little longer before letting him in. I still have no idea what’s
really
going on.

              “Do you have a blanket?” I ask him.

              He stands and opens a small overhead compartment and pulls out a thick blanket and places it over me. It’s lighter and softer than it looks, but also very warm. For a second, it almost feels like I’ve arrived at his home and he’s tucking me in for the night. I feel a sudden relaxation come over me as Francis closes the cabin door, and then the light popping in my ears as we pressurize.

              “How long will it be?” I ask him.

              “Just under seven hours,” he replies. “You can sleep if you want.”

              “Will you wake me when we’re over the city? I’d like to see it.”

              “Of course,” he says. I smile, feeling like I’ve made the right decision. I still need answers, but right now, for the first time in six years, I feel truly, truly happy.

              I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the engines as they come to life.

              It isn’t long before I’m asleep.

              I wake to the soft sound of his voice and his touch on my shoulder.

              “Mia,” he says as I open my eyes, his face just inches away from mine. For a second, I almost forget where I am, and I’m overcome by the desire to wrap my arms around him and kiss him, but before I can, he speaks. “We’re coming in over the city.”

              Then I remember.

              Paris.

              I sit up quickly and turn to look out the window, but I don’t see anything.

              “Over here,” he says, moving to the other side of the plane. I kneel over a seat beside him and gaze out the window, and there it is. Paris.

              The sight almost takes my breath away. There it is, like I’ve only ever seen on T.V. or in magazines. The whole city, spreading out like fingers from the Arc de Triomphe. The rivers, the bridges, the blocks of housing, and then, as the plane banks to the side, the Eiffel Tower.

              “Joey,” I say, instinctually clutching his hand. “Look.”

              “I know,” he whispers in my ear. “Isn’t it great?”

              I almost can’t believe it. If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be flying over Paris with Joey, I just wouldn’t have believed you. In fact, I would have said you were crazy, because the idea was just too absurd. But here I am, clutching his hand, about to land in the city of my dreams.

              The plane banks and begins its descent, and the Eiffel Tower leaves my sight. I crane my neck after it, but we’re banking hard for the airport. I sigh and sit back.

              “Don’t worry,” he says to me, squeezing my hand. “We’ll see it, and much closer.”

              Ten minutes later, we’re on the ground, and Francis has the door open and the stairs down. Joey has both of our bags in hand and disembarks before me. As I step outside, I take my first breath and realize I am now breathing French air.

              An enormous smile comes over my face as my feet first touch French soil. I must look like a giddy little girl. For now, I don’t care what Joey did to get all this money, where he’s been for the last six years, or where this is going. He’s promised me answers, and those answers will come, but for now I just want to be here, in this moment, and enjoy every second.

              There’s a car waiting for us, and Joey hands my bag to the driver, a man in a suit, before opening the door for me. I slide into a car whose interior is just as lavish as the plane I just left. I can’t imagine how much all this is costing, and Joey just decided we’d go on a whim. Just like that, like all this was nothing to him.

              The ride to our hotel is short, almost too short, and I watch the city go by out the windows, mesmerized by the experience. It doesn’t feel real. At the risk of sounding cliché, I feel like I’m living some dream and am expecting to wake up every time the car takes a turn down a new road. We pass cafes and shops, and I want to go in every one of them. I want to explore every nook and cranny of this city and burn it all into my mind so I never forget it.

              And just when I think the trip couldn’t get any crazier, we arrive at our hotel.

              A well-dressed man opens the door for me, and I step out in front of what must be a five star hotel. The building is old and beautiful, with stone statues and hanging ivy and perfectly landscaped shrubs and flowers everywhere. There’s even a red carpet leading up to the front door. Luxury cars are parked everywhere.

              The doorman takes my suitcase and reaches for Joey’s bag.

              “Thanks,” Joey says, snatching it away. “I got it.”

              “If you wish, sir,” he says, and I hear my first French accent in real life. I try to hide my smile so he doesn’t think I’m laughing at him.

              “Can you believe six hours ago we were in New Hampshire?” I ask him as we step into the lobby. “It’s unbelievable…”

              The view inside takes my breath away. It’s like something out of a movie. A checkered marble floor stretches out in front of me. The entire room is lit by hanging crystal chandeliers and supported by ornate columns decorated in some kind of orange and white mosaic. The front desk is beautifully carved wood with a deep, rich color of caramel. The whole place just shines and reeks of wealth. Even the air smells rich.

              I hear Joey check us in, but I’m too overwhelmed to really listen. My eyes scan across the lobby, seeing the suited attendants standing ready, the luggage men with trollies carrying expensive designer luggage, and all the guests in clothes that probably cost more than my monthly rent. It’s not just another country to me; it’s another world.

              The trip to our room is a blur of shining marble, gleaming wood panels and an elevator large enough to live in. When the bellhop opens the door to our room, I just don’t know what to do with myself.

              The space inside is enormous, with high ceilings at least twice that of the ones in my apartment. The walls are a mix of color blocked white, grey, and maroon panels. All the furniture is modern: a simple dark desk by a tall window, with several sleek white chairs. A burnt orange futon and some sort of matte black chair that looks like an egg with a dimple in it.

              I move to a set of double windows that are larger than my front door to my apartment, and swing them open to reveal the cobblestone courtyard our room overlooks. People mill about down below on foot or small scooters. The smells of fresh bread and crepes from a stand outside a shop fill my nostrils and I realize how hungry I am. The whole city is vibrant and alive. I couldn’t be any further away from Stonehill.

              “So?” I hear Joey’s voice behind me and turn as the door to our room closes behind us. “What do you think?”

              He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, an enormous, simple platform of white and orange. And he’s got that look on his face again, that smile that I can’t handle. He has to know what this place is doing to me.

              “What do I think?” I say, moving toward him. “I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

              He looks at me a moment before speaking. “What do you mean?”

              I take a seat on the bed beside him.

              “This hotel? This room? A Private plane?” I stop, waiting for his reaction. His eyes scan my face, then he shrugs nervously. “Usually in my life, when things seem to good to be true, it’s usually because they are.”

              “I told you, my uncle—“

              “Your uncle died, right,” I say, cutting him off. “See, Joey, I
know
you don’t have an uncle. Your parents are only children. I may not know much about you, but I know that.”

              He looks back at me like he’s been caught, but he doesn’t speak or give anything away. I let the silence grow before speaking again.