Chapter 1: Delayed Flight

(Sienna)

The flight board had been lying to me for two hours.

Delayed. Delayed. Delayed.

I'd stopped believing the estimated departure times somewhere around the third revision. Now I was sitting with cold coffee and colder patience, watching the lounge fill with people who all looked equally resigned to their fate.

I was not good at resigned.

I opened my laptop. Closed it. Checked my phone. Nothing that couldn't wait — which was the problem. I'd cleared my schedule for this trip, which meant the delay had nothing to compete with except my own restlessness.

I hated my own restlessness.

The seat beside me had been empty for an hour.

Then it wasn't.

He sat down without asking, without apologising, without making it a performance. He simply occupied the space like he'd decided it was his and that was the end of it. Dark jacket. No tie. The kind of watch that didn't need to announce itself.

I glanced over once.

My brain, very helpfully, said: oh.

Not oh, someone sat down.

More like oh, that is deeply unfair.

Tall. Dark-haired. The kind of face that suggested excellent genetics and a complete indifference to airport lighting. He wasn't classically pretty — too much jaw for that, too much stillness. But striking in the way that made you want to keep looking just to work out why you couldn't stop.

He set a glass of something amber on the table and opened nothing.

Just sat there.

I looked back at my laptop.

Closed. Still closed. Absolutely riveting.

"They changed the gate too," he said. "Twenty minutes ago. They just haven't updated the board."

I turned. Up close he was somehow worse. Or better. I wasn't prepared to decide.

"How do you know that?"

"I asked."

"Most people just sit here and suffer."

"I find suffering inefficient." The corner of his mouth moved. "Also contagious. You've been radiating it for the last hour."

I blinked.

"You've been watching me for an hour?"

"Observing." That almost-smile again. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Watching implies I couldn't look away." A beat, perfectly timed. "I chose to keep looking."

Right.

So this was happening.

This absurdly attractive man had apparently been studying me like a mildly interesting research problem, and was now telling me so with the calm confidence of someone who had never once in his life considered that this might not land well.

It landed well.

That was the problem.

"And what did your observations conclude?" I asked.

"That you solve problems for a living." His eyes moved briefly to my closed laptop. "And that being without one is making you slightly feral."

I felt the laugh before I could stop it. "That's an unflattering assessment."

"It wasn't unflattering." His gaze came back to mine. "Feral is interesting. Polished is forgettable."

Something warm moved through my chest and I told it firmly to stop.

"What do you do," I said, "when you're not conducting unsolicited character analyses in airport lounges."

"Build things."

"And when they break?"

"They don't." Simply stated. No arrogance in it — just fact. "I'm thorough."

Oh. That… sounded like it meant more than construction quality. The way he said it landed somewhere it absolutely should not have. I felt it in my sternum, and much lower, which was annoying, because I was a grown woman who did not get flustered by a single adjective and a steady gaze.

Apparently I did, though.

"I fix things," I said.

He considered that. "What's the difference?"

"Builders get the credit. Fixers get the call at midnight."

“Midnight calls,” he gave a small smile. “That’s when people are honest about what they actually need.”

I swallowed.

He smiled then. Fully. It changed his face entirely — not softer, just more — and I had the sudden, inconvenient thought that I would very much like to be the reason for it again.

I did not examine that thought.

"You haven't asked my name," he said.

"No," I agreed.

"Most people do. Reflex."

"Names are filing systems." I looked at him sideways. "I'm not sure I want to file you yet."

A silence.

"Yet," he repeated.

"Don't read into it."

The board refreshed before he could reply.

Delayed — New ETD 03:45.

Another five hours.

He looked at the board. Then at me. The question entirely in the angle of his attention — unhurried, certain, leaving the decision exactly where it belonged.

With me.

I had rules about strangers. Good rules. Rules I had maintained for twenty nine years without a single moment of genuine temptation.

This was a moment of genuine temptation.

"The hotel connected to this terminal has rooms," I said. "I checked earlier."

Something shifted in his expression. Not surprise.

Confirmation.

"So did I," he said.

I stood up. He stood up.

And I had just enough self-awareness left to register that I was absolutely, entirely, in trouble.

Just yes.

***

His hand found the small of my back as the doors opened, guiding me into the dimly lit room. The door clicked shut behind us.

And then his mouth was on mine.

Well. So much for my carefully constructed “responsible adult who does not have reckless airport flings with dangerously attractive strangers” persona.

His lips moved against mine—fierce, hungry—and he tasted like aged whiskey, sweet and smoky. My brain, which usually excelled at making sensible decisions, immediately packed its bags and left the building.

He let out a low groan that vibrated through his chest when I pressed against him.

That sound alone should probably have required a license.