Page 50 of The Best Thing He Never Wanted

“In Crete.”

“Car’s in Crete. Plane’s here—at Farnborough.”

“Thank you for clarifying.”

“Welcome.”

She stared at him, trying to gather the scattered pieces of her morning back into some kind of order.

He watched her quietly. “You’re going to Crete either way, darlin’.”

Her breath caught again.

He went on before she could respond. “I’m not asking you to change that. I’m telling you there’s a stupid amount of legroom involved if you want it. Food, wine, whatever you want. You don’t have to sit in a middle seat next to some stranger for four hours.”

“Is the stranger the problem, or the middle seat?”

“Either. Both.” His mouth twitched. “I’d be the guy you’re stuck next to instead. But I’ll sit wherever you tell me.”

She looked away because there was altogether too much inside that sentence.

“Blane, you can’t simply keep fixing every problem I give you.”

“Not fixing your problems.”

“You have produced an aeroplane and a car.”

“That’s logistics.”

She looked back at him. He was serious. Of course he was.

“You keep telling me the plan,” he said. “You go to Crete. You get to the house. You don’t drive until you’re ready. You settle in and figure out the rest.” He lifted one shoulder. “I’m only saying the same thing. Same plan, just better logistics.”

She stood in the bag-drop queue, now considerably farther from the front because Blane had taken it upon himself to redistribute the passengers behind her, and tried to find the hole in his argument.

But there wasn’t one; that was the maddening thing. He’d stepped over every practical obstacle she’d thrown at him as though each one had been put there solely for him to step over. Flight. Transfer. Car. Arrival. All of it. And now there was nothing left between her and Crete except the enormous unspoken thing she’d been throwing taxis and keys and middle seats at to avoid.

“You’ve thought of everything.” It came out almost accusing.

“Nope.” He met her gaze. “I thought of one thing; getting you there. The rest of it’s just…” He made a small gesture that apparently encompassed the plane, the car, and this entire improbable morning. “Logistics. I’m good at logistics.”

She knew that. What she didn’t know was what to do with the fact that he had apparently spent the night applying that particular skill to her.

Blane went still. Not the watchful stillness she’d first noticed at the concert. Not quite. This felt different. He’d made his case, and now he was waiting. And that, more than the plane or the car or the fact that he had somehow appeared behind her at Heathrow before dawn, settled something inside her.

He wasn’t telling her to go with him—he was asking to go with her.

“What happens if I say no?”

His answer came without hesitation. “You get on your flight.”

“And you?”

“Go back to Farnborough. Figure out somewhere else to go.”

“And you’d just let me leave?”

His jaw tightened once. “Wouldn’t like it.”