Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
But I know he isn’t having a breakdown.
I instantly understand what this is, and the sweet, crazy bravery of it brings tears to my eyes.
Someone at Heathrow central command must get it, too. Because a split second later, the opening notes of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” crackle through the loudspeakers, and a happy sob bursts from my throat. It’s just like in Bridget Jones, when she runs through the snow in nothing but her knickers and a camisole to prove her love to Darcy.
And now…
Now, Oliver Featherswallow, my solar eclipse unicorn, is doing the same for me.
And it’s terrifying. And wonderful. And terrifying, and I’m pretty sure my extremities are going numb as I stumble forward, ducking under the ribbon of fabric keeping our line contained.
Almost instantly, Oliver spots me, his eyes flashing with relief as he changes direction, aiming himself my way.
I try to aim myself his way, too, only to find my legs petrified by fear.
What if I screw this up? What if I crash and burn in front of God and the people of London and the press who are always lurking nearby? Again?
Or, even worse, what if big romantic gestures aren’t enough to make this work? What if I end up getting on that plane this afternoon and flying away? What if this is the last time I’ll ever see Olly in person?
The thought is so horrible, it turns my stomach.
As I stand there, fighting the urge to be sick, Oliver closes the last of the distance between us without hesitation, clearly ready to fight for our future.
And if he can put it all on the line, so can I.
“I didn’t have time to write anything down,” he says, slightly breathless from his dash through the terminal. He lifts his piece of cardboard. “I barely had time to grab this, but if I’d had time to write a deck of posters to hold up outside your door, this is what they would say.”
I blink faster, my hand flying to cover my lips as I realize what this is.
Dear God, it’s a Love Actually and Bridget Jones hybrid romantic gesture, and my heart will officially never be the same.
Never.
Not even if I live to be a hundred and ten.
“Emily Darling, I’m not sure why you’re leaving, but you shouldn’t,” he begins, his blue-gray eyes pleading his case. “You should stay because I know we can work through anything, as long as we put our heads together. And you should stay, because…I adore you. Have adored you from the moment you crashed through that nativity play and into my life.”
I suck in a breath, fighting tears.
“I love how quick you were to call me out for being a shite,” he continues. “And how equally quick you were to forgive. I loved dancing with you in that pub and kissing you in the snow, and every second I’ve been lucky enough to spend with you since.”
The crowd presses closer.
Security gives up trying to intervene.
“Ain’t no Mountain” swells higher, lifting us all up on its wings…
“I love your passion for lists and your passion for passion and the way you only laugh at my jokes when they’re actually funny.” His voice breaks a little as he continues, “I love your smile and your kindness and your bravery in the face of the British tabloids, my grandmother, and small boys, who are alarmingly fast on skates.”
I let out a liquid laugh as a tear slips down my cheek.
Oliver’s eyes fill with the same hope and fear swirling inside me as he adds, “I just love you, Em. I know the timing is all off, and you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I do. I love you.” He shrugs, attempting to play it cool, “And if you think about it, Bridget and Darcy didn’t spend that much time together before they started throwing the L word around, and they worked out just fine.”
“No, they didn’t,” a woman calls out from somewhere in the crowd. “In one of the later movies, Darcy actually—”
She’s instantly hushed by other members of the crowd, several of whom hiss something about spoilers.
I would normally be right there with them.
It is a fact, universally acknowledged, that women who enjoy making lists as much as I do, do not like spoilers.
But I do like this man.
I love him, in fact, and it’s high time I showed him I’m half as brave as he is. So, I reach into my briefcase and pull out my emergency Sharpie, the fat one I can use to write big enough to be seen at the back of a boardroom, if necessary.
Then, I reach out, taking the cardboard from Oliver’s slightly trembling hand.
I love that he’s trembling, and I love that every cell in my body knows he’s right—we can get through this, together—and I love that for once in my life there’s no doubt about what I should do next.