At Last Read Online Free PDF Page B

Town
    UK

    31 st May 2010

    Dear Court,

    Still love you.

    Ryan xxx (if you let me)

Chapter Four
     

    I was so scared. I was vibrating, trembling so much. How I was able to drive to Heathrow airport, let alone have a shower, I have no idea. The idea of even shaving my legs was a no-no, because I would have scarred myself in ten different places.  Ryan and I were going to meet. Face to face. We had been emailing each other for four months, talking on the phone for three and talking about what we would do to one another in the privacy of a bedroom for… Well, not long enough to make me feel less worried about seeing him. I didn’t understand why he liked me so much. Other than my newly acquired skill in describing sex.
    He had been true to his word about leaving me be. There was only that lone letter he’d posted to me, and his present, which had rocked up—a hefty book on Christian Dior. There was no way that man would know how much I loved Dior unless he paid attention to every single word I ever said to him. All I had was our emails, which I read over and over again obsessively. Then he sent a short one telling me his flight details and saying if I wasn’t able to come to the airport, he would get a taxi. I told him off for that, then told him I had taken the day off work to meet him.
    So there I was, wearing a pure white broderie anglaise summer dress that tied on my shoulders and flat sandals (I couldn’t drive in heels). Halfway to Heathrow, I realized I looked like a sacrificial virgin.
    I checked the flight times again and again and everything was all right, nothing delayed, no horrible crashes. I had written a sign for him: “The Queen Vic is waiting for you.” Our mutual adoration of EastEnders didn't really mean he'd actually step foot inside that pub. It was the scene of much carnage over the years. I'd be scared drinking in there.
    I wish I had written something simpler, like “Welcome Home, Ryan.” The mass of old wrinkly men who came up to me, staring hopefully at my chest, were turned away apologetically at first, then with irritation. My stomach started to twist itself into knots, and my foot beat a relentless tattoo against the floor. Then came a flood of passengers who had to be Ryan’s plane compadres.
    And I saw him. My sign nearly slipped from my hands, and my knees trembled. Wearing a worn hooded gray top and fitted jeans that showed just how long his legs were, he was pushing his case on a trolley. He caught sight of me; then he saw my sign and grinned, much to the bemusement of the people around him. I folded up the sign and tucked it into my bag. He pushed the hoodie from his head, his hair scattering wildly, catching the sheen of the electrical lights. It made him look almost angelic, one of God's haloed favourites, obviously before he was clearly arse kicked out of heaven for being a dirty-minded sex pest.
    My eyes were round trying to take all of him into view. Ryan was looking me up and down lazily.
    “Well,” he said, “Courtney Phillips in the flesh, and not a machine in sight.”
    I gave a nervous chuckle. “Can you manage without? Or shall I go outside and call you on your mobile?”
    “I’m not sure British Airways would condone such behaviour,” he said primly, before laughing with me. He held out his arms toward me and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him tightly to me.
    “Hi,” he whispered.
    “Hey you,” I whispered back. He pulled back a little and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear.
    I took in his staggeringly vivid green eyes, flecked with the smallest amount of gold around the pupils and surrounded by floor-sweeping lashes. Before I knew what I was doing, I was tracing the stark white scar beneath his right eye, shuddering helplessly at the thought of two-year-old Ryan being in pain.
    “What? Scars are sexy,” he defended, a small smile edging his firm, full lips. “You are so small!”
    “Oi! I’m wearing flat shoes.”
    He laughed, his arms