Chapter One
Josh
Hikingmybatteredleatherlaptop bag over my shoulder, I check the area around my seat to make sure I haven’t missed anything before turning towards the exit. The old lady in front of me is still gathering her belongings, so I entertain myself by gazing down the long corridor of poor souls who travelled cattle class. It’s a tangle of cramped bodies struggling out of tiny seats, bags falling from overhead lockers and people jockeying to get off the plane as fast as possible.
Flights to Australia are interminable. Especially from London. This one was blessed with the added entertainment of not one but two storms. The turbulence was so bad dinner was delayed, and the smell of airsickness wafted through the plane for hours. I don’t envy the economy passengers right now. At least the pointy end provides a little extra space and comfort.
A swirling curtain of glowing red hair catches my eye a few rows down in the economy section. Not Ron Weasley red. A rich, deep, coppery red. Framing an elegant profile, tipped up to search the overhead luggage bins. Long slender arms pull out a small backpack. I’m mesmerised by the grace of her movements as she slips it over her back, highlighting small yet spectacular breasts, which bounce under a clingy t-shirt printed with Frida Kahlo’s face, as she settles the straps. My body reacts of its own accord. Worn-out old jeans tightening as my pulse picks up. What a shame she wasn’t sitting next to me on this long and boring flight. She’s not my usual type—I tend to go for curvier women—but there’s no getting away from the fact she’s piqued my interest.
“Excuse me.” The tone belies the sentiment as I hear a throat clearing behind me. Someone’s in a hurry to get off. “How about you get moving?”
It’s the buttoned-up, business-suited guy who was in the seat across the aisle from me. Who wears a business suit on a twenty-hour flight? He gave me the stink eye when I boarded and turned left instead of right. Like he thought I didn’t belong there. I get that a lot. I think it’s the hair. Or maybe the tattoos. Then again, it could be the biker boots. Sure, I could tone it down for flying, but I get a kick out of irritating the entitled arseholes who fly business. Even though I’m one of them.
I realise the little old lady has gone and I’m free to make my way to the exit.
“Yeah, sure, man. You go ahead.” I step aside and let the dickhead pass me, which earns me nothing more than a slight shove and an eye roll. I don’t care. If I linger long enough, I might be able to meet up with the owner of the hair on the jetway. Maybe we can share a taxi and get to know one another.
No such luck. I’m pushed along by the stream of people eager to get wherever they’re going. Or at least eager to get out of the cramped and smelly torture chamber we’ve all been trapped in. I’m in no rush. I’m happy just to be here, breathing the Sydney air.
Even in the airport, where the stench of jet fuel, unwashed travellers and cleaning products is strong, I can smell the familiar scent I think of as distinctly Sydney. Eucalyptus mixed with sea air and humidity. It smells like home. Only now do I realise how much I’ve missed it. It was a conscious decision to stay away all those years, but I wish I’d at least made an effort to visit once or twice.
I wander aimlessly through the booze and perfume-filled duty-free shops for a while, happy to stretch my legs, keeping an eye on the walkway. I don’t spot the amazing hair again until I get to passport control, where it’s organised chaos. It seems the automatic passport scanning system has been fried by a direct hit during a lightning storm last night and we’re back to old-school systems of officers eyeballing you and stamping your passport. Luckily, we’re the first plane in, so the wait won’t be too long. I pity anyone on the ten o’clock from LA.
The delays work in my favour because there she is, in the queue next to me. I can’t see her face, which is hidden by a waterfall of incredible hair, while she taps at her phone. Until she tucks her mobile in the back pocket of her faded jeans and looks up. Our eyes connect over the lane dividers keeping us in our neat little lines, and I feel like someone’s hit me with a taser. Only in a good way.
The face matches the hair for beauty. This woman is drop-dead, kick-you-in-the-balls gorgeous. Her eyes are dark blue, almost navy, framed by curved brows and high cheekbones. Freckles dance across a delicate nose, which leads to a full, lush mouth. I can think of many, many things to do with that mouth.
Her face lights up like Sydney Harbour on New Year’s Eve when she notices me.
“Hey.” I tip my chin at her.
“Hi.” She’s Australian, and her expression is more friendly than you’d expect from a stranger, even an Aussie. Her smile is blinding, and for a second or two, I’m spellbound by those navy eyes. “It’s great to see you.” She leans across as if to hug me and is brought up short by the rope barrier.
That seems like a weird reaction. She doesn’t know me. Does she? Okay, I do sleep with a lot of women, and usually only once, but I think I’d remember her. The hair alone is not something you would easily forget. Although she does seem vaguely familiar.
I’m not sure how to respond. “Yeah … ah …you too.” It comes out as almost a question.
Elegant brows draw together at my response. She looks slightly confused and opens her mouth as though she’s about to speak when the guy behind her gives her a not-so-gentle nudge. There’s no time for patience in an airport.
“Ooh. Sorry. Sorry.” She smiles at him before turning to me and pointing at the counter. “My turn. Catch you on the other side, I guess.”
I watch as she chats with the officer. She’s beautiful. No doubt. And maybe a little crazy? He chats right back, clearly attempting to flirt before he stamps her passport and waves her through. She turns again and gives me a wave that’s way too cheerful for someone coming off the back of twenty hours in economy, before heading down the stairs to the baggage claim.
I get the distinct impression she’s as interested as I am. Looks like my welcome home just got a whole lot more interesting.
My line stalls thanks to the guy in front of me, who seems to be arguing the point with the passport security officer. Airports really do bring out the worst in people. Eventually, they come to an agreement, and I move forward.
I’ve travelled all over the world, and it’s not an exaggeration to say Australia has the friendliest border force officers of anywhere I’ve been. But don’t be fooled. They will drop on you from a great height if they get a whiff of something dodgy.
My officer rolls his eyes and cocks his head towards his previous customer who is stomping down the wide stairs, face red and sweaty. I shrug a ‘What can you do?’ and he smiles. “Welcome home. Sorry for the delays. Technology. Great when it works.” He checks my passport and sends me on my way.
The baggage claim is packed with cranky travellers impatient to get through this last torturous hoop of international travel. I scan the sea of bodies. Lucky for me it’s not hard to pick out such bright and shiny hair. I spot my bag and edge through the crowd to lean in and snag it. Most of my belongings are being shipped, so there’s only the one case.
This woman is breathtaking, and she’s aroused my curiosity, not to mention something a little lower. I drift towards her. Bags are starting to come down the chute thick and fast. I arrive at her side and am about to make my move when a guy way too old to be wearing a wanna-be-a-lad tracksuit in look-at-me-dayglow, drags his bag off the belt, swings it around and hits Red square in the hip. Taken by surprise, she lurches left, and I’m there to catch her. Full-frontal on my chest. My hands come up instinctively, supporting her back.
“Hey man, watch what you’re doing.” I give the guy a glare, which has no impact on his self-involved arse. I look back at Red. “Are you okay?”
She’s leaning against my chest and rubbing her hip, which moves her breasts against me. They’re small, firm and perfect. My hands move to her arms, where I find the skin smooth and warm, and I have to resist the temptation to circle my fingers. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my body’s response. The reverse happens as a dose of perfume and pheromones heads straight to my boxers. How does a woman get off such a long flight smelling so good? Like cinnamon rolls. Spicy and sweet and buttery. Delicious.
