“I don’t know where he’s staying,” I explained.
“And when has something as small as that ever stopped a whirlwind force like you, girl?”
I smiled at him.
“Never,” I told him truthfully. His smile faltered a bit. “I’m sorry, Spence.”
He shook his head. “Don’t, babe,” he said, winking. “They’re all lined up. They’re waiting for me as we speak,” he said, extending his arm.
He teased but the sadness there troubled me. I loved Spence so much but knew I couldn't say as much, that it would be cruel. So I just smiled at him, shoving my shoulder into his.
He picked himself up and dusted the back of his pants off. I stood and threw my arms around him. “Sophie Price, you’ll be the one that got away, I’m afraid,” he spoke into my ear. He pulled away. “You know how to solve that problem?” he joshed. I shook my head no. “With bigger problems.”
He kissed my cheek and stalked off, twirling his keys in his hand and whistling as he made his way to his car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I knocked twice but there was no answer.
Impatient, I headed back down to Ian’s lobby.
“Excuse me,” I told the concierge, “but can you check to see if a guest named Ian Aberdeen is still here?”
“Of course, miss.” His fingers cracked the keys of his keyboard. “I’m sorry but Mister Aberdeen has checked out.”
My heart raced. “Thank you,” I told him before hauling back out to my car, hopping in and racing toward home.
I dialed my cell.
“Pemmy?”
“Yes, dear? Fantastic job today in court,” he said. “I was just telling your father so.”
A lump formed in my throat. “I-Pemmy, listen, I need you to do me a favor.” I weaved between two semis, almost clipping one. No wonder you aren’t supposed to talk or text while driving. “Can you find out if Ian is flying back out tonight?”
He sighed. “Come home first, your father needs to talk with you.”
“Pemmy!” I yelled, exasperated. “Please, Pemmy, can you just check for me?”
“Come home, love. I’ll see what I can find out for you.”
“Thank you!” I said, pressing end and tossing the phone on the passenger seat.
Fifteen minutes later, I whipped my car into my parents’ drive and pulled into my garage space. I turned off the ignition, attempted to get out but realized I’d left my phone. I bent back in to retrieve it.
“You’re wealthy,” I heard behind me, staying me in place.
My mouth instantly went dry, my hands trembled, my breathing labored. I climbed out of my car and shut the door, leaning against the frame.
“No, my parents are wealthy,” I told him, mimicking what he’d told me outside his own home in Cape Town.
He smiled at me. “I see.”
“Does this change your opinion of me?” I asked.
“Hardly,” he told me, a rogue smile playing on a mischievous face.
We stood there staring at one another.