A Girl Can Only Dream

The invitation had arrived a week ago in a thick, cram colored envelope, sealed with an actual wax insignia that screamed royal, and over the top, Cole.

I had stared at it for a full ten minutes, flipping it back and forth between my fingers, wondering why a blogger from New Jersey was being summoned to a castle in a country she could barely locate on a map. And yet here I was. Nine pm on a stormy Friday night, dragging my luggage across JFK's damp terminal floor, muttering curses under my breath.

"Who books a flight at night during hurricane season?" I hissed to myself, brushing back damp strands of hair as the door hissed shut behind me.

Rain lashed against the glass walls, thunder groaned in the distance, and flight information blinked across the giant screens like a slow motion apology. FLIGHT 114 TO VELORIA: DELAYED. NEXT UPDATE IN 3H 02M

"Three hours," I gasped, already tired and slightly damp from the run from the Uber drop off. The airport lounge wasn't even open yet and my neck was knotting with tension.

Beside me, a red–haired woman in yoga pants and a velour hoodie clucked her tongue. "They're saying maybe four. Storm's not playing tonight."

I groaned.

"You should go down the wellness centre," the woman added. "There's a spa near Gate 36. Massages, aromatherapy ... all that calming stuff. Might help the time pass faster."

Massage. Right. I could either sit stiff and miserable or surrender to some cucumber–scented serenity.

I walked to the direction of gate 36, and there it was, spa blu. It smelled like eucalyptus, lavender and something faintly citrusy.

The receptionist greeted me with a warm smile and handed me aplush robe and a locker key. "Changing rooms are just down that corridor. Enjoy your session."

"Thanks," I murmured, clutching the robe like it was a lifeline. I was starting to regret this night flight. I should have left yesterday but my brother had to break his arm and end up at the ER.

I turned the corner, spotting the word 'Locker room' etched in brushed silver on the glass door, and slipped inside.

The lighting was dim. Steam clung to the mirrors. And I was halfway through unbuttoning my shirt when a voice spoke.

"You're definitely not where you think you are."

I froze. My eyes darted to the mirror—and there he was.

Towel. Only a towel.

Tall, lean and carved like a statue that had just stepped out of a sauna. The steam curled around his broad shoulders, and water dropped lazily from his dark hair.

His gaze met mine in the reflection. Amused. Curious. And far too calm for a man who was being gawked at by a fully clothed stranger in the men's changing room.

My brain rebooted.

"I—I—I thought –I was at the women's changing room," I turned clutching my half buttoned shirt like it could shield me from embarrassment. "I'm...so sorry —"

"Don't be," he said folding his arms across his chest. "It's been a long week. This might be the most exciting thing that has happened to me all month."

He didn't even flinch. Didn't reach for a towel— or more of one anyway. Just stood there like towel wrapped temptation, watching me fumble and blush.

"I'm just gonna —yeah—gonna find the right locker room," I stammered, spinning on my heels and nearly slipping on the tile.

I reached for the handle, only to hear voices echoing from the hallway.

Footsteps.

A male laugh. Someone was heading this way. Panic seized me.

"Oh no," I whispered, glancing around the misty room. There was nowhere to go. No stalls. No curtains. Just open lockers and steam. And towel greek tragedy still watching me with amused interest.

My hand hovered over the door.

"Looking for a place to hide," he asked, far too calmly.

"Yes," I hissed. "Unless you want me to die of humiliation on top of everything else—"

Without waiting me to finish, he grabbed my wrist and tugged me towards a small nook near the back of the room. A narrow gap between the lockers and where a storage shelf partially blocked view from the door. I stumbled into him, robe still clutched in one hand, shirt half–open, heart thudding loud enough to echo.

And suddenly—

Skin.

My palm landed flat on his chest. Warm. Damp. Firm.

I froze.

So did he.

The air between us crackled, humid with more than just steam.

I tilted my chin up slightly, and his eyes—dark, unreadable— were already on mine. His breath was slow, steady. Controlled. Mine? Anything but. I could feel the rise and fall of his torso against me, the tension thrumming beneath his skin like restrained heat.

The door clicked open. Laughter. Heavy steps. Muffled voices filled the room.

We stayed still.

He reached behind me silently and pulled the edge of a towel from a shelf, shielding us more. After a few excruciating minutes, the locker room door clicked again—closed.

"They're gone," he murmured.

I exhaled, chest sagging slightly against his. He didn't move, just studied me with such curiosity.

"Thank you," I breathed. "That.....was kind and very heroic of you."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It was my pleasure. Literally."

My cheeks burned hotter than the steam room.

"May I ask your name?"

I blinked up at him.

And for a brief, strange moment, I wanted to lie. To stay anonymous. But something in the way he was looking at me— calm, amused, intrigued. Made me say it anyway.

"Lisa," I whispered. "Lisa Moon."

I didn't wait for his reaction.

I slipped out of the nook, practically sprinting back into the hallway, heart still flattering in my chest like a trapped bird.