This Is Not How It Ends(9)

“Philip, meet my mother, Katherine.”

They exchanged a nauseating amount of admiration for one another before my mom elbowed me. “Charlotte, aren’t you going to introduce your friend to Daniel?” She eyed Philip with a wink of her own. There was a lot of winking going on. “Daniel’s her beau.”

Philip extended his hand to Daniel, sizing up the clunky man with the oversize paw. “Charlotte told me all about you, mate,” he said, convincing no one. “You all right, Charlotte?” Philip’s eyes were dancing.

“I’m fine.”

My mom was smiling, but I could tell she was confused.

“Daniel, Charlotte’s Mum,” he insisted, “please join me at my table. I know how much Charlotte enjoys a good wine. Let me treat you all to a bottle.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed while Philip surveyed his half-empty bottle of beer.

“Is this some birthday surprise?” my mother asked, to which Philip insisted she didn’t look a day over forty-nine, that her mole put him in mind of Cindy Crawford, and I literally watched my mother sink, as if into quicksand, at Philip’s feet.

“Come,” he said, signaling the waiter over.

Before I knew it, we were sharing a booth with Prince Philip and a real-life princess. I’d never felt more unsophisticated and out of place in my life.

Meghan, which I learned was the blonde’s name, was as enchanting as she was lovely. I didn’t usually refer to other women as lovely, but the whole English influence had me transformed into somebody new. Meghan spoke in the same proper accent as Philip, and I imagined their history bound them in the faraway castles of London or Scotland. The image caused a laugh to escape, and Philip’s eyes questioned me while Daniel’s palm rested against my shoulder.

“You didn’t tell me it was your mum’s birthday,” Philip said.

Meghan was warm and jovial, with glittery blue eyes that appraised me in a way that didn’t feel intrusive. She ensnared my mother in a conversation about her broach, a family heirloom, and when Daniel asked how Philip and I knew each other, Meghan blurted out, “They met on United.”

Daniel took his arm back. “Is that a dating site?”

I felt sorry for Daniel, but not nearly as sorry for what I was about to do. The relationship wasn’t working. It would never work. Not with men like Philip around, emphasizing what I needed most. But why didn’t Meghan seem to notice? And had my mother had too much to drink?

Philip seemed genuinely concerned about Daniel. “It was the airlines, my dear boy. United Airlines. We met on the tarmac, in Miami.” Daniel’s arm came around me again, though I felt my body shifting away.

Meghan raised a glass of wine to her lips and slowly sipped.

“I heard my brother almost got kicked off the flight.”

This got my attention. “Philip’s your brother?”

She tossed her hair. “Who else would he be?”

Philip laughed. “Americans like their competition, Meghan. Something about wanting what they can’t have.”

“What’s that?” my mother asked.

“It’s nothing,” I said, dropping my hand on hers.

His reminder of our conversation pricked my skin and bathed it in heat. There was no mistaking the pull between us. You read about it in books—the intangible rush of emotion that makes eye contact feel like fingertips, a subtle word a palm against your skin. Philip touched me even though there was a table between us.

Flustered, I rose from my seat and moved toward the bathroom. The restaurant was dark, and I stumbled.

“Charlotte?” my mother’s voice called from behind me.

I must’ve appeared shaky, because several patrons in the crowded restaurant turned to me with concern. When the door closed, I backed up against it and waited. I waited for my heart to start beating at a steady pace. I waited for my body to stop trembling.

Minutes later, Philip pushed through the door, and I didn’t stop him; his woodsy aroma filled the air.

We stared at each other as though our meeting here were the most natural thing in the world.

“You can’t be in here, Mr. Stafford.”

“Men’s room, women’s room. What’s the difference?” Then he turned serious. “I don’t understand why I’ve been thinking about you all day, Charlotte Miles.”

“Myers,” I corrected him. “It’s Myers.”

He didn’t seem to notice, or care, that he’d gotten my name wrong.

“You,” he said while pointing a finger in my direction, “you were one of the far more interesting conversations I’ve had with a woman in years.”

The compliment gave me pause.

“No response? You were ever so chatty on the plane . . . put Margaret right to sleep.”

I laughed. “You put her to sleep with all those drinks.”

“You know something? I knew I was going to see you again. You ever get that feeling from someone? Of course, I’d have found a way had destiny not intervened. You’re an interesting woman, Charlotte. I haven’t met many like you.”

His face was close enough to mine that I could feel his breath.

Then he kissed me. A gentle touch against my forehead that reminded me of years ago and being loved.

“Tell me, Charlotte, have you thought about me?” He was holding my cheeks in his velvety hands.