The Do-Over (The Miles High Club Book 4)

Time goes by so quickly . . . except when your heart is bleeding out.

Then every moment, every breath, every painful hour feels like an eternity.

It’s been three weeks since Christopher dropped me at the airport.

Three weeks since my world fell apart.

And I would love to tell you that I’m healed and on my way back to being right, but I can’t.

For there is no more sunshine.

My body lives here in the US; my heart lives in London . . . with him.

I think about him all the time, to the point that it’s unhealthy.

I worry if he’s taking care of himself, if he’s eaten, and if he’s working too hard . . . which I already know he is.

And I know I have to snap myself out of this, but how do you turn off your heart?

Is there a switch? Tell me, because I need to find it.

I drive the tractor as I look out over the green paddocks. It’s dawn. The sun is peeping over the horizon as it rises for a new day.

And even though I know I belong here, every day is black to me. Darkness that comes from within.

The worst part about it is that the whole experience has changed me. I’m not even happy here at home on the farm now. It’s like everything I thought I wanted has shifted off center. All that I thought I was is wrong.

Nothing is making sense.

And I know I don’t want to build a life in London . . . but I can’t stand the thought of being here either. Maybe I should go somewhere new, start fresh, but where would I go?

Anywhere without him is a tragedy.

I know that there is no way around this. It is what it is.

He’s a city boy; I’m a country girl.

The reason why we can’t be together still stands. Nothing has changed.

My heart is still firmly broken.

CHRISTOPHER

The scalding-hot water runs over my head. If I stand under here long enough, the water will eventually run clean.

I need to wash this heartbreak off.

My hand is on the tiles as I lean against the wall, and I’ve hit an all-time low.

It’s 3:00 a.m., and a new darkness has rolled in.

Regret.

And with it has come a deeper level of understanding of who I am.

Who I’m not.

I rest my forehead up against the tiles. My mind wanders to my sweet Hayden.

Where is she now?

Eventually I drag myself out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. I make my way downstairs and go through my Spotify list until I get to the song I need to hear.

I’ve had it on repeat lately. For just a moment . . . it makes me feel better, as if it brings me closer to the memory of being happy.

Closer to her.

It begins to play, and I drop to the couch to listen. This is Hayden’s anthem. It was 100 percent written about her.

And to the haunting words of “Halo,” by Beyoncé . . . I wallow in self-pity.

“So . . . what I’m saying here”—I point to the whiteboard—“is that the projection is way off.”

Ten sets of eyes watch from around the board table.

My phone vibrates on the table, and I glance at the name. Is it her?

Tristan.

I ignore it.

I keep presenting. “So over on this spreadsheet—” I hold the remote to the screen and flick through to where I need to be.

My phone vibrates on the table, and once again, I glance at the name. Is this her?

Elliot.

Fuck off. Why are they all calling me this morning? I’m busy here.

I keep talking, and five minutes later my phone vibrates again.

Jameson.

Huh?

For fuck’s sake, leave me alone, fuckers. I’m in the middle of something very important.

“If you go to recent years’ trends—” I point to a graph, and there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Elouise comes in. “Christopher, Jameson is on line two. He said it’s urgent.”

I frown.

“He said to take it in your office.”

“Hmm.” I look around at the table. “My apologies. I have to take this. Let’s have a ten-minute tea break.”

“Sure,” they all reply.

I walk out and storm down the hall. Fucking hell . . . I do not have time for this shit.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Page four, Ferrara News,” Jameson’s voice growls.

“What?”

I open up the newspaper on my computer and drop into my seat.

A half-page photograph comes up.

Christopher Miles Breaks Miss Ordinary’s Heart for a Supermodel.

There’s a huge photo of Hayden in the park. I’m sitting beside her on the park bench. She’s crying, and I look like I’m angry. Then beside it is a photo of me and Amira Conrad, a model who is dating one of my friends. I ran into her at the bar in a restaurant at lunch the other day. The photo is of me with my arm around her, snapped at precisely the moment I kissed her hello. I’m smiling at her, and she’s smiling back at me. We look totally in love.

My blood boils.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper angrily.

“Any news from Hayden?” Jameson asks.

“Nope.”

“This really doesn’t look good.”

“You think?” I explode. “Goodbye.” I hang up and scroll through my phone. My finger hovers over Hayden’s name . . . she might not even see the paper . . . and then . . . my heart sinks.

It doesn’t matter even if she does.

We’re over.

She doesn’t want me . . . or my life.

One day I will have to move on, and so will she. My heart twists at the thought of some country bumpkin being able to give her the life that I couldn’t . . . as much as I wish I could have.

I imagine her living on a large farm with heaps of wild and carefree kids and being happy, and I smile sadly. I want that for her. I want her to have everything she ever wanted. She deserves to be happy.

I put my phone back down.

My gaze goes to the window and London buzzing way down below. She’s a million depressing miles away.

Buzz sounds my intercom.

“Yes.”

“Are you coming back?” Elouise asks.

Shit . . . the meeting.

“On my way.”

I sit at my desk and stare out the window. People are talking, coming and going, and things are happening, but my mind is a million miles away.

On her.

Always on her.

Six weeks is a long time. Too long.

It’s not getting better; it’s getting worse. There’s a noose tightening around my neck that I can’t shake. The only time I’m happy is when I’m talking to Eddie, but I haven’t been able to reach him for a week now, and I’m getting worried. Why is his phone going straight to voice mail?

I glance at my watch. I might call the hostel to see when he’s working next. I’ll call Howard, the manager.

I google the number and dial as I begin to pace back and forth. “Hello, Barcelona Backpackers.”

“Hello, can I speak to Howard, please?”

“Just a minute.” I hear the line go through to an extension.

“Hello, Howard speaking.”

“Howard,” I reply, “it’s Christo.”

“Hey.” He laughs. “How are you, man?”

“Good, good. How are you?”

“Same shit, different day. All fine here.”

“Listen, sorry to bother you. I’m trying to get ahold of Eddie, but his phone isn’t even ringing.”

“Oh yeah . . . it got stolen.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks. I know how upset he’d be. “I wondered what happened. I’ve been calling and texting him, but no reply.”

“No point texting,” he replies casually.

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . he can’t read.”

“What?” I frown.

“He can’t read or write. You know that.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I snap. “Of course he can.”

“Christo . . . you know he’s homeless, right?”

“What?” I whisper. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he replies casually. “No shit. He’s an orphan.”

I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears.

“His parents are both . . . dead?” I gasp.

“His father took off before he was born, and his mother died in a car accident when he was eight, or something. No surviving grandparents or aunts or uncles. He was in the foster care system for a while but got put with assholes and ended up running away.”

I drop to the chair at the desk, shocked to a horrified silence.

“But where does he sleep?” I whisper through a lump in my throat.

“In a deserted house around the corner from the hostel.”

I stand. “Where is it?”

“It’s almost directly behind the hostel. It’s boarded up. You can’t miss it.”

I stay on the line, shocked to silence.

Dear god.

“Don’t tell him I called, okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, okay.”

“When is he working next?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Thanks.” I hang up and stare at the wall in horror.

What the fuck?

Barcelona

The Uber pulls to the curb. “Just let me out here,” I tell the driver.

I’ve never gotten on a plane so quickly. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I had to come.

I have to see him.

I walk around the corner and see the old deserted house.

I’m brimming with emotion; how can such a beautiful kid have such a horrible life and never tell me a word about it? I thought we were best friends.

I don’t understand.

I see a flicker of movement, and I duck in to hide behind a bush. I watch as Eddie walks out of the house and up the street as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. So brave and stoic.

Poor fucking kid.

I wait until he disappears around the corner, and I make my way up to the deserted house. It’s dilapidated and barely standing. Two stories with a staircase running up the outside. The front doors and windows are boarded up, so I walk around the back and see an old broken door.

KEEP OUT

DANGEROUS CHEMICALS.

I tentatively push the door open, and it lets out a deep, loud creak. I peer in.

Darkness.

“Hello . . . ,” I call.

Silence.

“Is anyone there?”

Silence.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone and push the door back and walk in. The floors are broken, and it’s dark and musty. Holes are punched through the walls, and graffiti covers everything.

My stomach twists.

I shine the flashlight around. Where does he sleep?

I need to see.

I search all the rooms. It’s worse than I thought.

Much worse.

My vision blurs, and I wipe my eyes so that I can see. I get to a room in the back, and I peer in, and my heart breaks.

A lone mattress is on the floor with a sleeping bag.

I walk over and look around. All the postcards I sent to him are carefully pinned to the wall like trophies. A laminated photo of Hayden strategically pinned in the center.

“Eddie,” I whisper through tears. “My poor, poor Eddie.”

I imagine him sleeping here in the musty dark.

All alone.

Nobody to care for him and make him feel safe.

I screw up my face. The reality of his situation is so raw and real.

Devastatingly sad.

I unpin the photo of Hayden; she’s smiling and looks so happy and carefree; my heart constricts, and I sob out loud.

He misses her too.

“Who’s there?” Eddie’s voice barks.

I try to pull myself together and wipe my eyes. “It’s me,” I call.

“Who?”

“Christo.”

He pushes open the door, and his face falls, and I can’t help it: my face screws up in tears.

“Don’t . . . ,” he spits. “What are you doing here?”

“I came back for you.”

He frowns.

“And I promise you on my life,” I whisper through tears, “you’ll never be alone again.”