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“Can I help you with that?” the Uber driver asks the second I step outside, his eyes glued to the suitcase that’s threatening to burst at the seams.
Wow, he got here fast.
I hand it over without a second thought. “Thanks.”
The SUV he pulled up in is way bigger than I expected—far more space than I need, but considering I was on the phone with Eomma, Dad, and Halmeoni, being told to pack everything but the kitchen sink “just in case,” I’m grateful for the room.
And yeah, I’m late.
I’ve also heard airport security is its own special brand of adventure, so the fact that I’m being limo-ed to the fresh side of hell in an ultra-plush vehicle? Count me in.
As he loads my suitcase into the trunk, I open the back door, and a tiny voice squeals, “Princess Peach Pop!”
I blink. Is that . . . the little girl from the restaurant?
“Sit next to me!” she insists.
Which, okay, since I’m not hauling some high-end purse, I slide in next to her.
I glance at the two boys in the third row—one glued to a comic, the other engrossed in a game on his phone. They both look up, give me a quick wave, then promptly go back to being boys.
My gaze shifts to the man in the driver’s seat. The man’s rugged looks and the way he carries himself tell me one thing: driving people around is definitely not his gig.
If I were to guess, military vet is high on the list of possibilities.
“You’re not an Uber driver, are you?” I ask.
He holds out a hand. “Harrison. And I’m guessing you haven’t formally met my kids—Connor, Ollie, and this little tornado is Sophia Hannah Evans, also known as Snooki Pie.”
“Hi.” I wave awkwardly, offering a smile to them all, but my stomach knots as realization dawns.
Brian sent him.
He sent all of them, which—using kids to pull at my heartstrings—feels like cheating.
And the truth is, I’m not ready to see him. Not yet.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice betraying the smallest quiver.
“Normally, hostages don’t get clues,” Harrison says with a smirk, smoothly merging into traffic. “But Brian didn’t want you to worry. We’re taking you straight to the airport. International terminal at JFK.”
“I was worried you’d be taking me to Brian, and I’d have to tuck-and-roll,” I say, only half kidding.
“Bolting from moving vehicles is strictly prohibited,” Harrison says with a wink in the rearview mirror.
I let out a small sigh, a little relieved, until the other half of me wonders why I’m not the kind of woman worth chasing after.
“Do you know how to braid hair?” Snooki asks, already handing me a brush.
I nod confidently. “Champion braider. Three years running. Totally unofficial, but still, the title stands.” She flips through anAngelina Ballerinabook—a Spenser family favorite because of Angi’s full name—and I get to work, taming her thick locks.
Soft music plays in the background, The Spinners, I think, and I catch Snooki bouncing her feet and humming along like she knows it by heart.
Working my way back to you, babe, with a burning love inside.
By this point, I can’t hold it in any longer. “Is he going to try and stop me?”
“Brian?” Harrison glances at me in the mirror. “He’d never stop anyone from chasing a dream. Least of all someone he loves.”
