“You know… I’ll leave you with the doubt,” she says with unexpected mischief, moving away to claim my former seat. Her strategic retreat ends our little verbal sparring match, but I suspect the battle is just beginning.
I must admit, this petite blonde has that spitfire attitude that intrigues me more than I care to acknowledge. Beneath her professional exterior lurks someone who gives as good as she gets. I’d love to see what else she’s capable of, what other surprises she might reveal during this long flight. Maybe this trip won’t be so tedious after all.
“Okay. Let’s see what excuses you’ll find now to touch me,” I say, unable to resist provoking her further. The expression that crosses her face—a delicious mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and something that might be of interest—is absolutely priceless. For a moment, she seems unable to form a comeback, and I count that as a small victory.
“I’m Nate, by the way,” I tell her, extending my hand across the invisible boundary between our seats. The formality feels almost comical after our charged exchanges, but some habits from my upbringing remain stubbornly ingrained.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Isabel,” she says, taking my hand. The moment her fingers touch mine, I feel a jolt of awareness that travels straight up my arm and settles somewhere in my chest. Her hand is impossibly soft, like silk against my callused palm, and I find myself wondering if her skin feels this smooth everywhere. I shake my head slightly, trying to dismiss the inappropriate thought as my eyes dart to her hand, noticing the absence of a ring. Not that it should matter to me.
“The pleasure is all mine, Isabel.” And I mean it more than I should. I find myself getting lost in her cerulean eyes—expressive, carrying secrets I suddenly want to uncover. She’s bewitching me without even trying.
Even trying to relax in my new seat seems impossible as my mind keeps circling back to Isabel. Her eyes, her lips, the way she seems to switch between professional composure and playful banter with such ease. It strikes me that my life has somehow come down to only wanting things I can’t have—a father’s approval, a peaceful night’s sleep, a normal existence, and now this captivating woman who probably has a life completely incompatible with mine.
But maybe I can try. Maybe for once, the universe isn’t working against me. Who knows? Maybe Isabel will let me get to know her better, beyond the confines of this metal tube hurtling through the sky.
“So, Isabel,” I say, breaking the silence that has settled between us. “What brings you to London? Business or pleasure?” It’s a mundane question, but I’m surprised by how much I actually want to know the answer.
She looks up from her laptop, seeming to consider whether to engage or dismiss me. “A bit of both, I suppose,” she finally says, closing her computer. “Family business, which is rarely a pleasure.”
I laugh, the sound startling in its genuineness. “We might be related, then. Nothing pulls me back to London except family obligations.”
“Let me guess,” she says, studying me with those perceptive eyes. “Demanding father? Expectations higher than the altitude we’re currently flying at?”
Her accuracy presses on a sore spot. “Bull’s-eye. How did you know?”
She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. “Takes one to know one. My father has my entire life plotted on a spreadsheet, color-coded by achievements and disappointments.”
“Mine prefers the old leather-bound family records. More gravitas that way,” I reply, surprised at how easily I’m sharing things I usually keep buried.
Isabel tilts her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Leather-bound records? How delightfully archaic. Does he also use a quill pen and seal letters with wax?”
“Only on Tuesdays and royal holidays,” I counter with a straight face. “Other days it’s just the family crest signet ring and parchment.”
She laughs, the sound warming something long frozen within me. “I knew it. Let me guess, your childhood bedroom was probably in the east wing of some drafty ancient mansion, filled with portraits of stern ancestors judging your every move?”
“West wing, actually,” I correct her, enjoying her surprised expression. “Better view of the gardens. And only five portraits, though Great-Great-Grandfather Edmund’s eyes do follow you around the room.”
“Five is practically minimalist,” she teases, mock-impressed. “Did you have one of those bells to summon the help when your silver spoon needed polishing?”
I clutch my chest in feigned offense. “I’ll have you know I polished my own silver spoon, thank you very much. Though there might have been a bell for… other emergencies.”
“Such as?” she prompts, leaning slightly closer.
“Tea crises. Scone shortages. The usual aristocratic catastrophes.”
Her laughter bubbles up again. “And here I thought my diplomat father’s cocktail parties were stuffy. At least we had electricity in all rooms.”
“Electricity is so nouveau riche,” I say with an exaggerated snobbish accent. “Real nobility prefers the ambiance of candlelight and the lingering fear of manor fires.”
Isabel snorts in a decidedly unladylike manner that I find utterly charming. “So that explains the military career? Escaping potential manor infernos prepared you for combat?”
She’s already a step ahead. Of course she is. Didn’t have to say a word—she just knew. “That, and the boarding school food. Nothing builds resilience like mystery meat Wednesdays.”
“Oh god,” she groans sympathetically. “Boarding school. Let me guess—boys only, cold showers, and Latin punishments?”
“Veni, vidi, suffered,” I confirm. “And you? Private girls’ academy with uniforms and etiquette classes?”
She raises an elegant eyebrow. “Curious about schoolgirl uniforms, are we? How predictable.”
