CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE RIGGS

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

RIGGS

Emmett: Getting claustrophobic yet?

Riggs: New York is a big place.

Emmett: Not big enough for your brand of issues.

Riggs: I didn’t know you moonlight as a shrink. There is just no limit to the things you can do without talent, is there?

Emmett: Did you pay her to marry you?

Riggs: Are you listening to yourself?

Emmett: Well, did you?

Riggs: Goodbye, E.

I wasn’t claustrophobic.

Of course staying in the same place sucked, but it had nothing to do with why I’d booked Duffy and me two tickets to the English capital, and had Zimmerman use all her pull at the USCIS to issue Duffy an emergency travel document.

No, this had everything to do with Cocksucker’s forest of flowers and his text message that he was on his way to New York. If he was heading to the Big Apple, I was going to drag Duffy out of it. Simple fucking math. Two could play this game.

I felt zero guilt over getting rid of the flowers without telling her. He owed her an engagement, loyalty, and about ten thousand orgasms. I’d given her everything he hadn’t in the weeks we were together. And still, to her, he was a better prospect than me.

The worst part, though, was that Duffy fought me tooth and nail. She probably wanted to stay in New York and wait for that cheating scumbag.

Now, as we made our way to JFK in an Uber (YES, Cocksucker, YOU CAN TAKE A FUCKING UBER TO THE AIRPORT), I tried not to think about how all I was doing was postponing the inevitable. Soon enough, my wife was going to reunite with the moron who’d left her. Soon, he was going to skim his lips over her delectable curves. Bite her neck where I had just bitten her last night. Grab her by the hip bones as he plowed into her from behind.

And you care because . . . ?

Things got worse when we got to JFK. The terminal was jam packed with holidaymakers trying to get home, carrying the worst type of travelers—children. The lines were long. The flight-departure boards flickered on and off due to electricity shortages because of the heat wave, and drunken tourists crashed into Duffy, accidentally spilling beer all over her dress.

By the time we passed TSA, we were both agitated, thirsty, and really fucking late. Blame it on Duffy taking two and a half years to pack for one weekend.

There was nothing remotely romantic about the entire trip so far. Not that I was shooting for it, but it’d be nice not to hold the worldwide record for shittiest honeymoon on earth.

It was bad enough that Kieran and I had had to fake his impending death to put her on that flight. A secret we agreed to keep between us.

“I forgot how hellish traveling is for the poor,” Duffy moaned, pressing her forehead against my shoulder as we trekked through the moving walkway. “BJ and I used to travel business. It was one of the perks of being with the arsehole.”

“Suck it up, buttercup.” I quickened my pace, not wanting us to miss the flight. She struggled to keep up, because of course, she had to wear pumps to a red-eye.

As per Murphy’s Law, our gate was on the edge of the fucking universe. About five miles by foot from the TSA point. We ran, shouldering past the thick crowd of travelers, rushing past duty-free shops, the time slipping between our fingers.

It took us twenty minutes to make it to the gate, and by the time we got there, the rows of seats were empty, and the person behind the check-in kiosk was snoozing.

That Guinness record for worst honeymoon ever was becoming an actual prospect.

“Oh, bugger.” Duffy collapsed against a wall. “We missed our flight.”

“Fuckers,” I muttered. “Could’ve waited.”

“We were forty minutes late,” Duffy pointed out, perching her ass on her trolley with a sigh. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken so long to pack.”

“Why did you then?” I barked out. I wasn’t really mad at her. More about the part where we were about to head home and wait for fucktard to knock on our door and sweep her off her feet.

She shot me an injured look. “I haven’t seen my family in almost a year. There was a lot I bought for them but didn’t send because shipping’s too expensive.”

I rubbed my mouth, looking away. Fuck. “Wait here.”

I trudged to the check-in point, where a sleepy airline representative was playing Best Fiends.

I rapped her counter. “Two tickets to your next London flight.”

She looked up, dropping her phone. “Heathrow or Gatwick?”

“Whatever’s earlier.”

“Let me check, handsome.”

She began clicking away on her computer. I shot a glance at Duffy behind me. She was gnawing on her inner cheek, childlike. What an idiot I was to book us a flight we had three hours to prepare for. Now she might not see her family.

“Sir?”

I whipped my head back to the woman.

“I’m sorry, the next flight is leaving in forty-five minutes and is completely booked.”

“Give me your list of passengers,” I demanded. “And their phone numbers.”

I could easily buy two tickets from well-meaning, well-paid travelers for double the price, and Duffy would be none the wiser.

She shook her head. “We don’t give out our customers’ information. Company policy.”

“I’ll pay you.”

Since when was I so desperate? Since when was I paying people to do ridiculous stuff? That was more my friends’ thing.

The woman glared at me, undeterred. “That won’t fly, pardon the pun.”

“There must be a solution,” I insisted. “For us to go on that flight. We’re just two people. One of us is, like, less than a hundred and ten pounds.” I motioned to Duffy.

Her eyes dropped back to the screen, and she pounded the keys with a huff.

“Actually .?.?. there are two business class seats.”

“How much?” I pretended to care.

“Four thousand eight hundred and seventy-five per ticket, sir.”

I fished out my credit card, dumping it between us. “I’ll buy them.”

She clasped the card between her fake nails, eyeing me skeptically. I didn’t look like money. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flown business. Discovery bought us economy seats, and I never fussed about it.

She swiped the card. We both held our breaths, like I didn’t know what my checking account looked like. After a few seconds, she nodded.

“It’s printing now. Thank you for choosing Unified Airlines.”

“Thank you for pretending I had a fucking choice.”

“I still can’t believe they upgraded us to North Star seats just because we missed our flights,” Duffy squeaked excitedly beside me an hour later, while we were both tucked in two bluish booths on the airplane. “My seat is a proper bed!”

See, now I was feeling guilty. But what was I supposed to tell Duffy? That I spontaneously decided to shell out nine thousand dollars I wasn’t supposed to have on a last-minute trip?

“Lucky us,” I muttered noncommittedly.

“Wait till I tell Kieran about this.” She rolled onto her side, beaming up at me. “He’s going to start missing all of his flights. He might even show up a couple days after.”

“It’s probably a one-off,” I said, not wanting the Markham family to miss their family vacations. “Best not to try it at home.”

Duffy laughed, patting my hand. “You’re right. He can be so literal. Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

This won her a sidelong glance from me. “Yeah? Why?”

Did she want me to meet the family? Was she going to introduce me as her roommate? Her boyfriend? Her husband? Her partner in deceit?

While we were on the subject—Poppins looked so happy now. Would it really be the end of the world if I told her I was filthy rich and was taking her for a spin for a year or two until she got out of my system? I had the means and she had the will.

You’re not buying your wife, you idiot. If she doesn’t love you poor, she doesn’t deserve you rich.

She accepted a Bloody Mary from an air hostess and bit the tip of the celery, chewing thoughtfully. “Because you’re both teetering over the same mental age of thirteen.”

I smiled tightly. “What was that? All I heard was the word teat.”

“You’re hilarious.” She pointed at me with the celery stick. “You know, I could really get used to this sort of lifestyle. See why I want to marry someone rich?”

You already did, Poppins. But I’ll die before letting you find out.