Page 39 of The Last Love Story

I sure as hell didn’t apply for an internship with the administration. Someone did on my behalf. And I don’t know who did it or why, but now I’m Callum’s fiancée. It’s a precarious safety. My parents can’t be hurt. Nef can’t be hurt. But now the entire world will put me under a microscope.

A third option, at least for now. Until I can figure things out.

I don’t say anything, opting instead to just hold him tighter.

“—I asked if they’d consider letting me call you. To talk to you. Toaskyou about this.” He pulls back, and covers the motion by brushing a curl behind my ear.Fake, I remind myself, even as my heart shifts into a higher gear. “Believeme, Ripley. I didn’t know they were going to be pulling something likethat. I found out right when you did—on that stage.”

My mind spins, but the earnestness in his voice is like an anchor. And he’s that same boy who told his father thathewas the one who broke the tire swing. The same boy who saw right and wrong as clear as black and white. The same boy who saw me as someone worth looking at twice.

“But Cal—” I start, as footsteps in the hallway make the words dry up in my throat.

Callum’s eyes turn serious, a heavy blue that feels at odds with the way he gently runs his fingers up my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps. “We’ll go to New Washington on different flights. They’re making me do another press stop before coming home. I’ll only be a couple of hours behind you.”

He smiles down at me, his eyes roving over my face like he’s trying to memorize this new version of me. I’m doing the same to him, and I can tell that he knows that as a smile stretches across his face.

“I know this is so strange, Rip,” he says. “But you’re my best friend. At least we’re not alone in this, right?”

I glance up at him. “Promise?”

Now it’s a grin. “Promise.” His eyes dip down to my mouth. “I can’t believe I have to do this with anyone, but I’m glad it’s you.”

And maybe it’s just for the camera, but he leans in. I’ll never know if he was going for my lips or my cheek, though, because the door crashes open, and someone barks something about the transport being ready.

We walk out together, and Callum laces his fingers, lips pulling in a bemused smile, as we return to the chaos: security guards, the flash of cameras, the thunder of engines. I focus on the heat of Callum’s hand against mine, the steadiness of his grip. When he’s ushered to his hoverplane and me to mine, he holds my arm long, stretching so we bridge the distance between both vehicles. Maybe I imagine it, but the flashes seem to pick up at that.

But when he leans forward and brushes his lips against my knuckles, the look in his eyes feels like it’s only for me.

The hoverplane we leave in is much nicer than the hovercopter we came in. The first felt military, with a migraine-inducing roar of blades. In this one, I don’t even have to wear earmuffs. They pipe quiet pop—with personalized lyrics that I recognize from my DopaMine channel—through a plush velvet interior. In a few hours, I’ve gone from potential prisoner to royalty, and all because of this ring on my finger.

I know I shouldn’t push it, but I chance it when I see one of the guards holding my bag. He’s not the same one who took it from me, I’m pretty sure, even though, like allthe Hammers, he has a mask over the lower half of his face and tinted glass over his eyes. He doesn’t say a word as I approach, but redoubles his grip on the strap on my bag.

I hold my hand out and clear my throat. “May I?”

He tilts his head, as though he doesn’t understand.

“My bag?” I ask, irritated.

He makes a show of looking down at the bag as if surprised to find it at the end of his own arm. Seriously?

“Please,” I bite out. I scan him from head to toe. Is this how the Hammers will treat me, now that I’m practically Mrs. The President’s Son? Before, they had treated me like a threat. Are they going to toy with me now, assume my head is filled with fluff now that my dress hides the muscles I’ve spent a lifetime building?

After further deliberation, he thrusts the bag out to me. Lightning-fast, I snatch it and sling it over my shoulder, immediate comfort releasing my shoulders down from my ears at the weight of it.

A flight attendant in bright red greets me with a warm hand towel and cool water, which has a surprising bite to it—at my expression, she explains that it’s sparkling, although I’d rather describe it as spicy. Not willing to take another sip, I hold one item in each hand awkwardly as she motions to follow her to the back of the roomy cabin. No one grabs me and forces me forward. No nightsticks on my back or shackles on my wrists.

The flight attendant ushers me into a private room with a bed, a couch, and a private bathroom. She must see the confusion on my face, because she smiles. “You’ll need to rest up. Lots waiting for you in New Washington!”

I must still look like I’m not catching on, because she grins as she holds her hand out.

“Why don’t I take the towel,” she offers kindly, “and you just relax?”

“In here?” I ask foolishly.

She nods.

“Alone?” I double-check, looking over her shoulder once more to make sure I’m not getting a death glare from a guard.

“Alone,” she answers with a smile.