One Way Ticket Page 4

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid my family or Todd forever, but for now, I was in a new city.

  And even though I was terrified, I was certain this was where I needed to be.

  Chapter 3

  Addison

  I hope you arrived safe and sound. I am so excited about this! Well, excited and nervous as hell. Velma’s in the garage, you’re welcome to use her to get around the city.

  I opened my eyes and blinked a few times, trying to wake up. What time was it? It had to be early. And what was that noise? It sounded like a foghorn, which was weird because I didn’t live anywhere near the sea. I must have dreamed it.

  Hmm, things had gone from bad to worse if all I could manage to dream about was foghorns.

  I closed my eyes once more and rolled over onto my back. I stretched my arms up above my head, twisting my hands around. I took a deep breath, luxuriating in the comfort of my bed.

  There was that noise again, louder this time. It definitely sounded like a foghorn, but that made absolutely no sense. I opened my eyes and pushed myself up onto my elbows. The sun was rising, pinky-orange light peeking around the edges of the blinds.

  Back up the bus. The blinds? I didn’t have blinds in my bedroom. Where were my gorgeous new, floaty curtains? I reached my hand behind me, searching the wall for my light switch. Huh? It wasn’t there.

  I pushed the covers off and was instantly struck by how cool the room was, without the hum of the air conditioner. Cool? In Orlando, in June? That never happened.

  I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, my toes touching the cold hardwood floors. And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t at my apartment. I wasn’t even in Orlando. I was in Sabrina’s apartment in San Francisco, on the other side of the country.

  And the foghorn? Well, it probably was an actual foghorn.

  I stood up and stumbled across the room, finally locating a light switch by the door. I flicked it on and looked around the room, at the beautiful wrought iron bed, the high ceilings, the ornate fireplace, the tasteful decoration befitting this Victorian building.

  Runaway bride Sabrina Monroe had style, I’d give her that.

  I rummaged around in her chest of drawers, looking for some socks to warm my feet, finding an abundance straight away. I slipped on a soft-as-butter woolen pair and silently thanked Sabrina for her luxurious taste.

  I padded over to the large sash window and pulled the blind open. I squinted at the morning sun, illuminating the street below, with it’s perfectly clipped hedges, painted apartment blocks, and well cared for, attractive trees. There was no doubting it; this was a gorgeous place in a gorgeous neighborhood.

  A grin spread across my face. I was hit by a surge of excitement. I lived here now! At least for a while. This was my place in my neighborhood!

  Addison Bloom, you have well and truly landed on your feet.

  I spotted Sabrina’s wedding dress across the room. Unlike her approach to it at the airport, where she had unceremoniously dumped it, balled up, abandoned on a plastic seat, I had hung it up over her tall closet door. Some of the creases had dropped out overnight, but it was in a state, with a few smears, the skirt crushed, even some of the lace detailing ripped. It looked like it had been worn by . . . well, a runaway bride, pushing herself through a bathroom window.

  I had been the butt of many a comment about the dress on my flight last night. One middle-aged man greeted me with open arms, announcing “I do!” with a theatrical grin. It had made me laugh, until it happened again—and again. The well-meaning woman I sat next to on the flight even offered to talk to me about what I had done, telling me she was a registered counselor and I was clearly in need.

  Explaining the dress belonged to “a friend” did little to convince her.

  I’d thought of Sabrina, wearing the dress as she dashed through the airport, and my heart went out to her.

  I took some of the fabric between my fingers. That had to be satin. With the floaty skirt, nipped in waist, and lace trim, it was so whimsical, so romantic. I would take it to the cleaners and make it look the way it should.

  Who knew? In time, maybe Sabrina would change her mind about marrying this guy. I wanted the dress to be ready for her, if she ever did.

  I located one of Sabrina’s sweaters, pulled it on, and headed to the kitchen. I rummaged through her cupboards, looking for coffee, but all I found was herbal tea and an empty canister with the word “Coffee” written on the outside. This would not do.

  I needed caffeine, stat!

  A quick shower in Sabrina’s gleaming white-and-black tiled bathroom, I threw on the only clean T-shirt and pair of shorts I still had in my meager luggage, remembering how I had given my other set to Sabrina in Dallas last night. I borrowed another sweater from her extensive collection—San Francisco must be colder than I’d thought—and ventured out.

  It was a chilly and murky morning, the sun trying hard to work its way through. It took me a moment to realize I must be in the midst of the famous San Francisco fog. I grinned to myself, adding a spring to my step. I was such a tourist, but I did not care.

  I walked down the pretty street, past painted buildings with ornate details, manicured plants, and the occasional person out, walking their dog. I came across a sweet little café with a couple of tables and chairs out front beneath blue-and-white striped awnings. An aroma of freshly made coffee and pastries wafted out and my taste buds stirred.

  Mmm, breakfast. I didn’t need any more persuasion.

  I pushed the glass-paneled door open and a bell went ding! announcing my arrival. There were a few occupied tables, mostly by people reading their phones or newspapers, and a tall man with a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a mustache was standing behind the counter.

  I walked over to him. “Hi,” I said with a smile.

  “What can I get you?” he replied, raising his eyebrows at me, a bored look on his face.

  I took a moment to peruse the café’s extensive beverage list on the blackboard behind him. “A skinny latte, please, and one of those chocolate croissants you’ve got there.” I nodded at the stand in front of me. I could diet tomorrow. I was on vacation!

  Well, kind of.

  I handed over my money and found a seat at a table next to an old wooden bookshelf, crammed full of books.

  The bespectacled barista delivered my breakfast and I devoured it in record time, it was so delicious. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

  Maybe deciding to switch lives with someone you’d only known for a matter of hours made you super hungry?

  Whatever it was, I ordered another chocolate croissant and a second skinny latte, vowing to run up one of those steep San Francisco hills to work them off later in the day.

  My breakfast done, I thanked the barista and left, deciding to have a look around this new place I was going to call home for . . . how long? Sabrina and I hadn’t decided. Maybe a few weeks or a few months? Maybe even longer? Right now, I could imagine wanting to live in this legendary city for the rest of my life. I would fall in love, raise a family, and die a contented elderly lady of ninety-three.

  But, then again, that may have been just the chocolate and coffee talking. It was early days.

  I wandered down the street, past the closed restaurants and bars. I bet this place was lively at night. I wandered through a bookstore, through a hip fashion store, and continued on my way, soaking up the cool city atmosphere.

  Although I’d never been here before, there was something about this place that was so familiar. It reminded me of my hometown back in New Zealand, Wellington. With its hills, wooden houses, and beautiful harbor, San Francisco could be Wellington’s bigger, more glamorous American sister.

  I pulled my phone out of my purse and found my current location, noticing a beach called Crissy Field was only a few blocks away. A stroll on a Californian beach would go down very nicely right about now.

  As I walked down the street, I sent an enthusiastic text to Sabrina, telling her h
ow fabulous her neighborhood was, how I loved her gorgeous apartment, and how I hoped she was loving Orlando as much I was loving San Francisco.

  My phone dinged with a text a few minutes later.

  Out shopping. Need clothes! Had to borrow your flip-flops, sorry. It’s so hot here!

  I chuckled. After San Francisco, Sabrina must be finding Orlando’s heat almost unbearable. I sent her a quick reply.

  Borrow whatever you want. I’m wearing one of your sweaters! Hope you’re loving it as much as I am. Best. Decision. Ever!! xx

  While I had my phone out, I sent a message to Isabella, my closest friend in Orlando, who also happened to work for me. I hadn’t told a soul about Sabrina’s and my life swap, so I needed to start somewhere. The person who would turn up at work to a different boss tomorrow was undoubtedly the right place to start.

  After texting her what Sabrina and I had agreed to do, I slipped my phone back into my purse. I reached Marina Boulevard to see the docked yachts bobbing about in the breeze. I wrapped my arms around myself, my legs now resembling a plucked turkey. I thought California was warm!

  Clearly, I had become too acclimatized to Florida’s hot and humid weather. The fog was still thick, but I could see the outline of what appeared to be an island across the water and a bridge connecting the city to it. I walked toward it. A bridge . . . in San Francisco . . . Hold the phone! That wasn’t just any bridge, that was The Golden Gate Bridge, one of the most famous bridges on the planet!

  It had been blown up, hit by a tsunami, climbed by apes, attacked by Godzilla, and destroyed by a nuclear blast, to name but a few of the movies it had been featured in.

  I quickened my pace, wanting to get past the marina to see it in all its glory. And then, there it was, the one-mile long red bridge, rising like a towering edifice to human achievement out of the fog. I put my hand on my heart and let out a sigh. It was just as magical as I had imagined.

  I had made the right decision. Switching lives with Sabrina was going to work out perfectly for me.

  * * *

  Back in Sabrina’s apartment, after wandering happily around San Francisco, soaking up the atmosphere—and purchasing a couple of warm sweaters and a pair of jeans to help me cope with that atmosphere—I went through the list of favorite items Sabrina had asked me to send to her.

  I had placed things in piles when my tummy began to rumble. Loudly. I had gotten so wrapped up in the romance of wandering through the streets of San Francisco and seeing the Golden Gate Bridge I had completely forgotten to pick up any food.

  As tempting as it may sound, I knew women could not live by chocolate croissants and skinny lattes alone.

  I remembered Sabrina had told me she had a scooter in the building’s garage I could use. She’d called it “Velma the Vespa,” a gift from her dad. I’d chuckled when I read that in her email. It was kind of cute to name your scooter—the sort of thing I’d do.

  I began to rummage through her drawers, searching for the key. With no luck after several minutes, I stood, hands on hips, in the hallway, with its high ceilings and pretty cornicing, and tried to think. Where would someone as neat and organized as Sabrina put her scooter key?

  I spied a small hook above the cabinet in the hallway. Bingo. The keys were hanging there, attached to a shiny red scooter key fob. Of course. I plucked them off and slipped them into my pocket.

  Down in the garage, I spied Velma parked up against the wall, a matching and equally shiny red helmet hanging off the handlebars. So I knew how much food I could transport, I checked the storage in the seat and the compartment at the back of the scooter. Plenty of room.

  I pressed the button to open the automatic garage door and wheeled the scooter out onto the street. I slipped the helmet over my head and buckled it up.

  Now, all I had to do was get on board and ride this baby.

  I had never ridden a motorbike of any description before, but this thing looked straight forward enough. Really, how hard could it be? It had ledges for my feet and didn’t look like it could get anywhere near rivaling a NASCAR in the speed stakes. I figured a quick spin around the block ought to be enough practice before I headed off onto the city’s busier streets to the supermarket.

  I slung my leg over the bike and sat down on the black leather seat. I turned the ignition over and started up straight away, purring like a shiny red kitten. This was going to be fun!

  I was young, free, and single, and on the adventure of a lifetime.

  Checking both ways, I took off slowly down the street in the direction of the café I had eaten at a few hours before. I stopped at the crossroads, indicated, and turned right, humming down the street, the wind whipping my hair poking out from under the helmet behind me—well, as much as hair can be whipped when you’re travelling as fast as a cautious elderly lady on her mobility scooter.

  A handful of right turns later and I was back outside Sabrina’s apartment block.

  That felt like enough practice. Now, it was time to let this baby loose.

  Checking both ways once more, I slid out onto the street, enjoying the feeling as I glided along. As I turned left across the next street, I gripped the handlebars. Taking easy turns around a quiet, residential block was one thing: this was quite another.

  Sure, I was going at a pace a snail would be embarrassed by, but being around other traffic had my nerves jangling.

  I stopped at a crossing, waiting for a group of trendy, young women with shopping bags to saunter across. They were deep in conversation and didn’t even notice me, my hands sweating with first-time nerves.

  As I started up again, I must have given the scooter too much gas. I lurched forward, my body lagging behind. I began to wobble from side to side, veering toward the sidewalk.

  This could not be happening!

  In a blind panic, I yanked on the brake, but it was too late. My front wheel hit the curb, sending both me and Sabrina’s beautiful scooter crashing into a potted hedge. I lay, face down, my butt in the air and my helmeted head hanging over the large pot, wondering how I had got it so horribly, horribly wrong.

  “Are you okay?” a masculine voice called from above.

  Thoroughly dazed, I blinked at a pair of white sneakers in front of my eyes. Gingerly, I placed my hands on the sidewalk to push myself up.

  The person in the sneakers crouched down in front of me. “That was quite a fall.”

  “I think . . . I . . .” I trailed off as I raised my eyes to his. Warm brown with flecks of gold, his forehead crinkled in concern. His light brown hair was a little ruffled, as though he’d been running his fingers through it, and he was sporting more than a touch of five o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw.

  If I hadn’t already been lying face down on a city street, I may very well have swooned.

  “Are you hurt? Any broken bones?” he asked.

  Incapable of removing my eyes from his, I patted my face, wriggled my toes, and shook my head, checking everything was still in working order. “I . . . I don’t think so,” I replied with an embarrassed smile, my voice breathless—whether from my accident or being next to this guy, I couldn’t say.

  “Can you stand up?”

  Confident the only thing seriously damaged was my self-respect, I nodded my head. “I think so. I may need some help to get up, though.”

  “Of course.” He stood up from his crouched position in front of me and disappeared from my view.

  A moment later, I felt warm, strong hands around my middle. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” I managed, and within a heartbeat, he had lifted me up, flipped me over, and held me in his arms. He smiled down at me.

  I felt like a princess, saved by a valiant knight—only from a red Vespa called “Velma,” not an angry dragon.

  I smiled at him, my heart beating hard as I enjoyed the feel of being enveloped in his arms.

  I’d never been one of those girls who was into the fairy-tale thing, had never been overly interested in being “saved” by some guy.r />
  I always figured, if I needed saving, I could do it myself.

  This? This felt amazing. I’m sure the feminist in me was rolling her eyes, but there was something in having a hot guy—and this guy was most assuredly hot—coming to your rescue.

  Far too soon, he guided me to a standing position, not removing his hand from my waist. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you think you should get checked out? Just in case?”

  I nodded at him, biting my lip. He was tall—at least six foot—his shoulders were broad, his white T-shirt hinting at a firm, athletic body beneath. I swallowed. “No. I’m okay,” I squeaked.

  He nodded and smiled, his face lighting up, his teeth gleaming white next to his tanned skin. “Good. Sorry, I guess you don’t need me to hold you anymore, then.”

  He pulled his arm away and I wanted to scream, “No! Take me in your arms once more!” Luckily, I didn’t, because that would have been beyond awkward—as much as I wanted it.

  “I . . . I can’t believe I crashed,” I said, shaking my head, my hand on my chest.

  “Well, it was more of a flop than a crash.”

  My eyes widened. “A flop?”

  He nodded, biting back a smile. “You just kind of fell off the scooter. I don’t think that really qualifies as a crash.”

  Oh, this was getting better and better! Crashing the bike was one thing; flopping off a scooter was quite another.

  “So, nothing’s broken? Well, other than the plant.” His voice was warm, like melting butter and sweet syrup on a stack of pancakes.

  I tore my eyes from my cute Knight in Shining Sneakers’ face to assess the bruised and battered hedge in front of me. There was an Addison-shaped dent in the middle, much like the shapes cartoon characters formed when they burst through walls. “Oh, no!” I bit my lip. “I guess I’ll have to pay for a new one.”

  “No, it’s all good.” I watched as he leaned over and reconstructed the bush, even picking up a couple of branches that had broken off on impact and stuffing them into the hedge. “See? Just like new.”