Her
five months later
I close my eyes and rub my forehead, glancing at my watch, the minutes passing interminably slow. Over the phone’s speaker, the translator talks slowly, filling in the gap in time before our French distributor launches into another spiel.
“Adrien,” I interrupt. “Let’s focus on the root of the problem for a moment. When do you need the catalog? Give me a realistic timeframe.”
I wait as the translator speaks, French quickly flying between the two, and glance again at my watch. Outside my window, the city lights move, cars driving, office lights turning off, a plane twinkling from its place in the sky. I used to enjoy late nights at the office. I loved the quiet, the productive hours without interruption, my inbox finally worked through, any sleepy spells taken care of via a fifteen minute catnap on the couch. Now, I eye the couch, a sleek modern piece that has gotten more than its fair share of use lately, all of it of the X-rated variety. My phone buzzes, and I glance at the text from Trey.
Jet’s ready. Take your time. I’ve got a call with Frank in ten minutes.
I don’t respond to it, moving the cell phone aside and pulling up my calendar, looking at design schedules, and our concepts in progress. It takes another forty minutes to come to a date that pleases Adrien, and another ten minutes to stop his attempt to renegotiate our rate. By the time I hang up, my head hurts. I move to email, firing off updates to the involved parties, and eye the calendar one last time, mentally moving through all of the pieces, making sure that everything is in place before I push away from the desk. I snag my phone and text Trey back on the elevator ride down.
On my way. France is happy.
I walk through the lobby, smiling at the security guard who unlocks the front door and escorts me to my car. “Have a safe trip, Ms. Martin,” he says.
“Thanks, John.” I open the door and duck into the car, giving him a small wave before shutting the door. I’ve left this building so many times, heard that parting line so often I could recite it in my sleep. Would he stumble when I returned? Would the first time, the first utter of my new name, sound odd?
I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel and the diamond glints at me. I press down on the clutch and shift the car into reverse, the growl of the engine giving me my first shot of relief. Everything is taken care of. Everything is in place. I back up carefully, then pulling forward and toward the front gate, my nerves loosening by the time I get on the freeway, heading to the airport. I call Jess and my mother, a short conference call filled with teasing giggles and the threat of a surprise visit. I threaten them with bodily harm, then promise to see them as soon as we return.
Three weeks off. Tahiti, in one of those tiki huts set out in the brilliant blue waters of the South Pacific. Three weeks where I would become his wife and we would sip frozen drinks, dance on the sand, skinny dip in that gorgeous water, and get a head start on baby-making. Would the company survive? Two years ago, the answer would have been a resounding no. One year ago, I’d have worried the entire time. Now, I feel confident in our team, in our new managers, in the systems and relationships that we’ve spent these years building.
When I step from the car at the airport, I leave my briefcase and laptop in the trunk, taking only my wallet and passport, my step light as I move through the private airport, the stairs of the jet down, beckoning me. There is movement inside, and then he is there, at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me, and everything in my chest swells.
I’d never believed in fairytales, but this man—he is my prince, my future, my everything.
Him