Chapter 1:

December 22

The day I met Remy Guidry, there was an apocalypse. Not the apocalypse with a capital A but the lowercase kind that hits Florida on a regular basis.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blankenship." The woman at the Delta counter didn't sound sorry. Nor did she look cheery despite the green wreath that was pinned to her chest. "All flights are grounded due to Hurricane Jack. No plane is leaving Miami today. Or tomorrow. Possibly the next day either."

This dire information matched the board of CANCELED flight designations that was visible just to my right. But I was deep in denial. "Seriously? We're just seeing the outer bands of the storm. And there's an evacuation notice. Surely, you'd want to fly out as many people as possible before it gets bad."

She arched an eyebrow and her gaze shifted to look over my shoulder. I turned my head and saw the lights of a few dogged taxis outside in the passenger arrivals area. They were blurry through the sheets of rain pelting down the glass windows. One of the taxi drivers held his hat as he fought the wind to get to the driver's door.

"Sorry," the woman said flatly. "As you can imagine, everyone wants to get home for Christmas. But we can't control the weather, sir."

"What about other airports? Can you get me a flight out of Orlando?"

She shook her head. "Orlando is down too. So is Tampa. I suggest you grab a hotel room while there's a taxi left to take you there. Oh, and I'd recommend one on higher ground."

She put up a plaque that said CLOSED. Her wreath pin blinked sadly as she walked away.

I dragged my roller bag through the airport, which was growing less populated by the minute. By the time I reached the rental car counters, it was as if humanity had never existed. Or, at least, that it had never wanted to travel anywhere. All of the counters were closed except for Budget where cheerful fairy lights threw disco vibes onto the lone employee at the counter. She was a middle-aged woman with a shellacked blonde beehive. I ran over and stopped in front of her, panting.

She smiled. "You look like a man who needs to get somewhere."

"God, yes…" I checked her name tag. "…Bridget. Bridget from Budget, that's cute."

She winked. "That's me."

I gave her my most dazzling smile and ran a hand through my blond hair—short on the sides, long on top, with cut-edge layers thanks to lots of product. If my looks could help me get out of Miami, I wasn't above using them. "Well, Bridget, I need to get to New York for an engagement party. My fiancée will have my, er—" I was going to say balls for breakfast, but no, "—guts for garters if I don't make it."

"Oh my." Bridget's eyes widened.

"So I'll take anything you've got." I put my credit card on the counter.

Bridget grimaced. "I'm afraid I don't have anything. We've been sold out for hours. I've been calling around to other agencies for our customers, but I've pretty much tapped out that well, too. I'm sorry."

My heart did a nosedive—straight down, tail spinning, like a plummeting bi-plane. "Please. There has to be something."

"Well…. There are one or two rental places I haven't tried yet. But they're way, way down market and not close to the airport."

"I'd appreciate if you'd check. I'll take anything!"

"All right. I'll try." She gave me a sympathetic smile and got on the phone.

I waited, fists clenched.

This was all my boss's fault. The news had been talking about Jack for a week now. It was supposed to make a direct hit on Southern Florida and then move up the eastern seaboard. I'd wanted to fly home days ago. But, no. Simon Schubert, founder of Schubert Supplies as well as my future father-in-law, was an old-school salesman who believed that if you walked out the door without a signed contract in hand, the deal would never happen. He insisted I stay until Mason, the biggest hospital conglomerate in Miami, had signed on the dotted line on a deal for nearly a hundred-k worth of medical supplies. The red tape had been endless, and I'd had to be a lot pushier than I was comfortable being. The Florida people wanted to postpone sign-offs until the hurricane was over. Hell, the contract review had finally been accomplished by Mason's lawyer while he was on a flight to Los Angeles. Because, evacuation.

But not me. Oh, no. I was still here.

Bridget put a hand over the phone's receiver. "I found a car, Sir, but it's with Rent-a-Heap in Miramar. A Ford Fiesta."

"I'll take it," I said immediately, nudging my credit card closer to her.

Rent-a-Heap. A Ford Fiesta! Oh how the mighty have fallen. I thought of my Porsche in New York with longing. But, at this point, I'd ride an e-scooter if it came with an umbrella.

"You've been a gem, Bridget, really," I said to the woman when she completed the call. "Great customer service. I'll leave a review."

"It's Christmas," Bridget said with a smile and a shrug. "Safe driving, sir. And Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you!"

The words felt strange as I said them. Christmas. It was, in fact, that time of year, as the many bedecked and bedazzled decorations at the airport, and at Mason HQ, where I'd spent the past two weeks, assured me. But I'd been so wrapped up in work, in the stress of trying to close the deal, I'd had no head space for the holidays. And with all the stuff Allison had planned, it wasn't going to be any more relaxing once I got to New York either.

The only taxi I could find was about to knock off for the day. I had to give the wizened taxi driver a hundred-dollars in cash to take me to Miramar, on top of the fare.

"You leaving town?" he asked me as he pulled out of the airport.

"As fast as possible."

"Where you goin'?"

"New York."

He shook his head. "A word of advice? Don't try to take 95 north from here. It's a parking lot. Our dispatcher told us to avoid it."

My heart did another nosedive. This time the plane's tail was smoking. I hadn't thought of that. Yet another reason not to wait until the last damn second to evacuate.

"This is a nightmare." I covered my face with my hands.

"What you want to do," the driver went on calmly, "is cut over to 27 from Miramar and then take 441 up nearly to Orlando. You can cut back over to 95 from there and avoid the worst of the bottleneck out of Miami. Hopefully. Anyway, it can't be any worse."

"Oh yeah?" I took out my phone and brought up a map. 27 was west of Miramar, so a bit out of my way since I was headed north. But he was right. It was probably faster than the I-95 bottleneck.

"I'll do that. Thanks for the tip."

"De nada. Hope you make it out of the area okay, man. This hurricane—it's supposed to be a walloping SOB."

I sighed and rubbed my temple. No shit. Every cell in my body was urging me to get away. Though how much that had to do with the storm, and how much with what I knew would be Allison's wrath—far scarier than Jack's—was debatable. At least I had a plan now. I gave in to the inevitable and called her on my cell.

"What do you mean, you won't be home tonight?" Allison gasped. "Tomorrow morning is brunch at the club. You need to be there!"

I stared out at the pouring rain. The wet swip-swipe of the windshield wiper blades was audible over the wind. "Babe, every flight out of Miami is canceled. I managed to get a car, but it's a twenty-hour drive. I should be home by tomorrow night."

"But you'll miss the brunch! Can't you get a flight out of a different airport? What about a red eye?"

I grit my teeth. "Orlando's shut down too. And any flights from Florida that are still leaving are likely to be full given the evacuation notice. I'm driving home."

"But the club's putting on a special menu! And we were going to tease the engagement ahead of the party. You know this."

The party on Christmas Eve, at her parents’ mansion, was the gala where our engagement would officially be announced. Somehow, that one event had accumulated other mini-events around it like children huddled around Mother Goose. Or maybe like the tormented spirits when the Ghost of Christmas Future opens its cloak. These festivities extended through the entire Christmas and New Year's season.

"Allison, I'm doing the best I can. There's a hurricane. I'll be there tomorrow night, in plenty of time for the party on Christmas Eve. I'm sorry to miss the brunch. All right?"

"As if you leave me any choice," she grumbled. "Just don't be any later. Do not fuck this up, Joe. I've spent a lot of time planning this. You know how important it is to me."

"Swear. Love you. Gotta go. I'll text you when I've made some progress." I punched the END button on my phone before she could argue.

My gut ached and I popped a few of the antacid tablets I always carried in my pocket. I was too young for this shit, but my stomach had been acting up for the past few months. Probably the stress of the job. Simon was the type of boss who was never satisfied for more than five minutes, and I'd been traveling constantly. Plus the conversation with Allison left me feeling sour, upset, and weirdly off-kilter, like things were spiraling out of control. And if there was one thing I hated, it was losing control. I reminded myself that engagements, weddings, all of that jazz, were a huge deal to most women. Bridezillas really were a thing. Of course, Allison had big plans, and of course, she wanted me there. Once we were married, everything would calm down.

My phone buzzed. I plucked it back out of the breast pocket of my suit jacket assuming it would be Allison, maybe with an apology, maybe with, I dunno, some concern for my actual safety and wellbeing. But the screen said BORIS EVANS. He was the CEO of Mason. Oh God. Don't let there be a problem with the contract.

"Hi, Mr. Evans! What can I do for you?" I answered with my upbeat salesman voice.

"Joe? Did I catch you before you left town?"

"You did, sir. Though I'm doing my best."

"Flight grounded?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But I'm on my way to pick up a rental car. So…"

"Oh, good! When I saw on the news about all flights being canceled, I hoped you might be driving."

"That's the plan. I think I got the last rental car in Miami." I chuckled in a self-effacing way.

"Then you're just the man I need." An alarm bell dinged in my head, but it didn't have time to build steam before he came right out with it. "I need a favor, Joe. It's a big one, but I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

"Uh… okay. If there's anything I can… sure."

"There's a young man who works at a home where my wife volunteers. He just found out his mother has cancer and this is probably her last Christmas. She's in Manhattan, and he needs to get there. As you know, he's not gonna get a flight."

Oh. Oh shit. "Uh-huh."

"I thought, if you were driving, maybe he could go with you. It would mean a lot to me, Joe. He's a stand-up young man and, well, obviously this is urgent."

I saw my plans for a speedy getaway melting—much like the dime-sized hail that was currently hitting the taxi's windshield was destined to do. Fuck a duck.

There was no way I could say no to Boris. Not after I'd twisted his arm to get this deal closed. And he'd remain an important client. This deal was only the first of many. I hoped.

"Of course," I said with a hiccup of hesitation. "Where, um—"

"Perfect! Thank you so much, Joe. His name is Remy Guidry. I'll text you the address of where to pick him up. It's in Homestead."

After Boris hung up, I banged my head on the window. Homestead was south of Miami, and the car rental place was north. So it would be at least a two-hour trip out of my way to go to pick up this complete stranger. And then I'd be stuck in the car with the guy all the way up the continental US. In a freaking hurricane.

"It's the happiest time of the year!" the radio opined.

I caught the cab driver eying me in the rearview mirror. "You got a passenger, huh?"

"Yeah. Lucky me."

"Look at it this way, man. At least you'll have someone to share the driving with."

That was true. But with the way my luck was going, the guy wouldn't even be able to drive.

planes, trains, and hurricanes book page