Chapter Two
Luke
This airport smells like rubbing alcohol and impending doom.
I drag my suitcase over splotchy linoleum, striding toward the gate. A necessary evil on the path to the other, more essential evil: planes.
If there is a greater hell on earth than riding a metal tube hurtling through the air at almost six hundred miles per hour, sloshing around like ice at the bottom of a cup at the slightest turbulence, I cannot think of it. And we pay for this privilege. In fact, we spend a sizable sum to board these flying caskets.
On the plus side: I’m here. I made it with six minutes to spare. Against all odds—and by that I mean a lengthy meeting that could’ve been an email if I didn’t respect the client so much—I’m catching this flight.
The size of the crowd inside the gate is hovering-room-only, so jam-packed that I have to maneuver it like an obstacle course.
I scan overhead for the CLT to LAX sign. 0 minutes to boarding.
My stomach lurches. It’d be nice if I could enjoy this feat of travel luck, an on-time departure in the middle of a storm. Instead, my imagination conjures up creative scenarios involving planes colliding on a hazy runway, wings ripped off and dangling like hangnails.
I close my eyes and exhale. At least on board, I’ll be able to purchase in-flight wifi to distract myself with the Hopstetter file. The art of disconnecting is not a skill I’ve mastered. I may be technically off the next four days, but my work-brain never powers down.
My suitcase plays bumper cars with someone else’s as I maneuver toward the jet bridge.
Sophie’s voice yanks me back into our conversation. “Are you still listening, Luke?”
Right. I was listening—am. I love my sister, but the woman is long winded on every topic except the one I called her to discuss: Mom. Instead, we spent the entirety of the shuttle ride to this terminal discussing Sophie’s temperamental washing machine, and when I called her back after stripping down for TSA in the name of safety, she managed to steer the conversation to her penchant for killing houseplants, blowing past my questions about the family.
“Yes, still listening. The house…has humidity, and that matters, because…leaves?”
“I’m going to accidentally drown and/or dehydrate this fiddle leaf fig. It is fated.”
I roll my eyes. She’s a single mother and a nurse who actively keeps my nieces, mother, and tons of patients thriving every day but has decided she needs more things to care for. “I have to let you go. Hang in there, take a few deep breaths, and don’t water it with battery acid. You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get right on that deep breathing thing, just as soon as— Mom, hold on. You already did your insulin, remember?” Sophie exhales, and the crackling is loud in my ear. “I’ll call you after I put Mom and the girls to bed. Have fun at work.”
After a goodbye I’m not sure she heard, I tap my AirPod. Little does she know, I’m not en route to a work conference as I led her to believe. By the time she would’ve called me back this evening, I’ll already be in Bakersfield, listening to her plant saga in person.
Following weeks of Sophie avoiding questions about Mom, my instincts tell me it’s time for an impromptu visit home to make sure everything is okay. And to consume as many Salsa Shack Tacos as humanly possible with my best and only friend, Will McClary, but mostly the family stuff.
My sister and I have an unspoken agreement. I send money, and she spends it to keep Mom from torpedoing her own life. Whether it’s bills, medicine, or shiny distractions that keep her out of trouble—I send a check, and she handles the day-to-day. Sophie’s boots on the ground, dealing with the caretaking. I’m Luke in the office, thirteen hours a day.
The system works well enough. It allows me to keep my job working for my mentor-turned-boss, Rogelio, the man I owe my career to; enables Sophie to pay for her daughters’ private school and have some financial breathing room; and gives Mom nearly full-time care. And Sophie’s around to head off Mom’s vodka benders before they gain steam. A win-win-win.
Mostly. Living two thousand miles away is not without its challenges.
Sweat gathers beneath my collar as I duck my head to enter the plane. It’s like stepping through a portal to a different dimension where every object is small and distinctly foreboding.
I stow my coat and belongings overhead and plop down in 18D. After two more ups and downs to let my seatmates board, I scan my downloaded playlists for something that will distract me until I’ve calmed down or can get out my laptop—whichever comes first. By the time I’ve settled and my blood pressure has somewhat regulated, my AirPods beep four pitiful beeps.
Rustling the case from my pocket, I flick open the lid. My phone screen lights up to inform me the charging case is also dead.
With a pang of misery, I blink up to check my seatback for a USB outlet.
My attention is stolen by a woman hustling onto the plane, clutching her chest like she just completed the twenty-sixth mile of a marathon. Her heavy steps echo, alerting the entire cabin to her presence. She cyclones through first class, clumsily dragging her suitcase down the aisle, apologizing to each of the five people she bumps along the way.
I tuck my elbows and legs firmly in my row and return to my USB hunt, craning my neck to check the nooks of my armrests. No outlets. This plane must be old.
As I’m racking my brain for correlation statistics about aircraft age and safety outcomes, I glance up and catch an eyeful of ass at close range.
Jesus.
The late arrival is bent over and digging around her suitcase. If she’s aware she is practically sitting on my face, she shows no signs of it.
She snaps up, granola bar in hand. “Victory!”
Several people peer her way as she tosses it on the empty seat.
Her long, shiny hair cascades down her back as she then attempts to rearrange the suitcases already positioned in the overhead bin above her row.
Wow.
I’m a sucker for the effortless sexiness of curve-hugging jeans, and this woman is wearing the absolute hell out of them. Her shirt is a bright, shimmery white that makes her pale skin look tan. And that hair—
Wait.
As quickly as the appreciation for her stirs, it disappears when I place the distinctive red color. I almost didn’t recognize her now that she’s lost her coat and isn’t yelling over the top of the world’s yellowest car, but it’s definitely her.
The woman from the parking lot.
With the memories of that bizarre interaction fresh in my brain, I filter her appearance through the questionable personality lens.
Nope. Still gorgeous.
When she fails to create space for her own luggage by jostling strangers’ suitcases, she turns around to check the other overhead bin. The one that stretches over my row.
Unfortunately, the front of her is just as alluring as the back. I snag on her pretty mouth, just like I did when she was talking to me in the parking lot. The combination of her red hair, white shirt, and blue jeans unlocks an association in my brain. She looks like one of those Rocket Pops my neighbors’ parents always used to stock in their outside freezer. Red, white, and blue. Had she not accosted me earlier, I might think she’s just as sweet.
She hoists her suitcase off the ground. Her body sways dangerously, but she quickly rights her balance and thrusts it toward the bin. The muscles in her arm quiver as she huffs and puffs under her breath. “Get—in—there—dang it.”
I launch out of my seat and catch her luggage before it knocks her out. “Easy there.”
She tightens her hold on the hard shell. “I got it.”
It teeters sideways, putting the dude in the seat in front of me at risk.
I all but steal it from her grip to turn it on its side. In this position, it slides in easily.
Her face tilts up, and her gaze finds mine. Recognition flickers in her eyes.
She scowls. Damn, does she ever. Really gives it her all, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes. “Oh.”
I cock my head sideways. “Oh what?”
“Now you want to be helpful. Where was this energy in the lot?”
Ah. Apparently she’s clinging to her parking lot vendetta. But honestly, the scowl is unfounded. I probably saved her life back there. Because of me, she’ll get her blinker checked, sparing her an accident down the road.
I offer her a tight smile. “Excuse me for trying to save you from a suitcase concussion. That thing is a hazard. Soft luggage is safer.”
“And uglier. I was totally handling it, by the way.”
Irritation seeps into my tone. I back into my row with my hands raised. “Fine. My mistake.”
“Why are you annoyed? You took my spot and then proceeded to leave me out in the cold.”
I rapid-fire blink, trying to recalibrate. “What? I explained this to you in the lot, ma’am—”
“Not ma’am,” she splutters, leaning even further into my already limited personal space. “That’s a life level I haven’t unlocked. My name is Cassidy—”
“—pleasure to meet you, I’m Luke—”
“—and not only did you cut off my car, you didn’t hold the door. I almost missed this flight.”
I grapple for some semblance of understanding. “Hold the door?”
“If you’ll both have a seat,” a sharp voice says from behind me, “I’m going to close the bins for takeoff.”
Rocket Pop—Cassidy—nearly whacks me with the overstuffed purse slung over her shoulder as she jerks it forward. The thing is a bludgeoning weapon and bursting at the seams. She frees two plastic cards from its stuffed depths, slides them in her pocket, and stows the bag overhead.
I move sideways into my row to let the flight attendant do her job. Cassidy plops down in 17C, an aisle seat on the opposite side, one row ahead.
She pivots in her seat to face me. “When you boarded the shuttle, I was behind you, yelling for you to hold it. And you, apparently, decided it wasn’t worth saying something to the driver. Probably because I yelled at you in the lot, which—yeah, I was frustrated. I interrupted your call. I’m sorry. But I thought surely you wouldn’t leave a girl out in the cold. Guess I was wrong.”
Wow. With a series of leaps that large, she could’ve long-jumped the distance to the terminal. Fire kindles low in my gut. “Whoa. Let’s take about three giant steps back. I didn’t hear you. Or see you coming.”
“I find it hard to believe you didn’t hear me. I was yelling.”
“It’s the truth. It’s windy, and I was in the middle of a call. My AirPods do a pretty good job canceling noise. This was not an intentional slight. Do you always turn misunderstandings into character assassinations, or is this a special occasion?”
“It’s not a character assassination against you personally. I just know your type.”
A laugh threatens to spill out. I’ve known Uber drivers longer than this girl, and she’s about to speculate on what type of person I am.
And yet, curiosity is like a hot poker against my tongue. “And what’s my type, exactly?”
The woman directly across the aisle from me—the seat behind Cassidy—overtly listens to this exchange, her gaze ping-ponging between us.
Cassidy, however, doesn’t seem to notice any other humans on the plane exist. Her sights are set on me, and me alone. “The type that thinks they are super important and that everyone should accommodate them. People who take what they want.”
“And where are you getting that from?”
Her eyes—glacially blue and just as cold—rake me up and down as she twists further in her seat. “Well, let’s see. Expensive wool and cashmere coat, possibly Italian, indicating you have an important job and/or social life and can’t risk showing up somewhere late or messy. The rest of you looks like you called up Mr. J.Crew and asked what he was going to wear to the merger meeting so you wouldn’t match but then said, Screw it, I’ll wear that, too. You’re probably someone’s boss, used to people doing what you want, and good at everything.”
Sherlock has nothing on this woman. She could teach a master class on how to draw elaborate conclusions out of thin air. I may have committed her jeans—and, fine, her exceptional ass—to memory, but her level of observation is on another level. And it’s all so epically wrong I almost want to correct her. But she doesn’t need to know this coat was a gift from Rogelio when I took the job in North Carolina, that my social life leaves much to be desired, or that I’m balls-deep in a twenty-game basketball losing streak against Will—and I’ll likely chalk up another L while I’m home this week.
So instead, I perch my elbows on my thighs and offer her a forced smile. “Totally. You pegged me. I’m the CEO of Google. I hold several world records. And of course I have somewhere to be, as do you. We’re on a plane. You can cast judgment on my clothes and behavior all you want. It doesn’t change the fact that the shuttle thing was unintentional.”
The fire in her eyes seems to extinguish, leaving something ashen in its place. But she lets out a little hmph. “If you were CEO of Google, you’d take a private plane.”
“If I were CEO of Google, I’d have used my capital to invent a teleportation device. Happy flying, Cassidy.”
I shove my dead AirPods back into my ears and settle into my seat, hoping she takes the hint. If I have to speak to Cassidy again, it’ll be too soon.