I’m about to board the bus from Mink Arena to the airport when my phone rings. My father’s face appears on the screen, so I step out of line and answer. “Yes, sir?”
“I had the distinct pleasure a bit ago of being thoroughly chastised by an American woman completely unimpressed with any bit of me.”
Holding in a grin is impossible. My father fell for Sylvie when she chewed his arse out over his lack of manners in a New York restaurant, and the rest is history. Though I would’ve hoped he’d learn to not give her reason to chastise him so much by now. “I thought you’d become accustomed to that.”
“Far more charming when my wife does it.”
Murphy distracts me, walking past to climb onto the bus with an irritated scowl on his face. He’s staring at his phone and muttering something about killing someone.
So I shan’t be the only one up to his ears in frustrations on this trip.
“I’m about to board the bus,” I tell my father. “If I need to stay—”
“Go,” he tells me. “Isaakson and I will work out a plan for handling Austling. You’ve done enough. This was never your fault, though it’s good to see you take charge for once.”
Perhaps it wasn’t my fault, but he’s correct. I haven’t handled myself in the best manner to solve the issue directly, and I should have done much sooner.
On the ice, I never leave a problem untackled. But it took a spitfire from Alabama determined to rescue me from myself to show me how to step up outside the arena.
I wish my father safe travels home and climb aboard the bus, Viktor a constant presence as always. Because it’s still bloody fun to be an annoying fucker, I plop into the seat beside Murphy.
He scowls at me.
I smile and type a quick message to Gracie.
You’re bloody perfect. Miss you already.
The message spins and spins and comes up with a delivery failure notification.
I frown and try again.
The bus sweeps into motion while Murphy and I both scowl at our phones.
When the second message to Gracie won’t go through, I text Kristofer instead. Is Gracie about?
While I wait for his reply, I glance at Ares.
He’s watching me back, clearly amused.
“Yes?” I say.
He shakes his head and looks down at his own phone. Mine dings.
Text message from Ares. A gif of an explosion, followed immediately by a gif of a twitterpated cartoon rabbit with its heart bounding from its chest and more hearts dancing in its eyes.
“Another one bites the dust, eh?” I say to Ares.
He doesn’t answer, but his smirk says it clearly. You got it, smarty-pants.
Yes, I’m a twitterpated fool.
And I’m quite all right with that.
Until Kristofer’s message lands on my phone.
She departed with her luggage an hour ago, Your Highness.
Heat flashes up my neck. Airport?
I’m going to the airport. If she’s there—
Traveling privately with her sister, I believe. And there’s this business with the monkey, Your Highness…
“Fuck,” I mutter.
She’s already gone.
Not a surprise—she does have her bakery to run. I assumed she’d wish to return home while we were away, given that Elin has also departed. I hope she didn’t misunderstand my message.
The part where she hasn’t texted or called is worrisome.
And—bloody hell.
She chewed out my father. That’s what he meant. Fuck fuck fuck.
I can’t even begin to imagine what might be going through her brain. I hit the button to call her, unsurprised when her phone rings straight through to voicemail. “Gracie, love, I’m boarding to Florida soon. Call me when you get this. Please.”
Murphy slides a look at me. “Trouble in paradise, you bloody cheerful goat?”
Fuck the smile. “Never. You?”
“I’m going to beat the fucking pulp out of Felicity’s ex-boyfriend.”
“Need a hand?” I don’t want to beat anything right now. I want to hear Gracie’s voice and be able to tell her I’m a free man.
But until then, help is what I have to offer my teammates.
Murphy’s nostrils flare. “Probably could use eighteen or twenty hands if I’m going to stay out of jail.”
Across the aisle, Ares grunts and holds up ten fingers.
“We’ve four hands right there,” I say, as though my insides aren’t turning to jelly.
Gracie’s left because she has responsibilities of her own at home.
Not because I’m never going to see her again.
This is going to be one long bloody flight to Florida.
