“Just conducting thorough reconnaissance,” I reply with a wink that makes her cheeks flush slightly. “Strategic intelligence gathering.”
“For what purpose, exactly?” she challenges, eyes narrowing playfully.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “To determine if you’re as much of a rule-follower as your perfect posture suggests, or if there’s a rebel hiding behind that professional facade.”
“And your assessment so far?”
“The jury’s still out,” I say, enjoying our verbal sparring more than I’ve enjoyed anything in months. “Though I suspect anyone who criticizes her father’s spreadsheets has at least some rebellious tendencies.”
“Perhaps,” she admits with a slight smile. “Though anyone who joins the military despite aristocratic expectations might know something about rebellion themselves.”
“Touché,” I concede. “Though in my defense, it’s less rebellion and more… alternative tradition. Military service has its own kind of rigid structure.”
“So you traded one set of rules for another?” she asks, suddenly more perceptive than I’m comfortable with.
I deflect with humor, not ready to admit it wasn’t a choice. “At least these come with cool equipment and the occasional explosion.”
She laughs again, accepting my evasion. “Boys and their toys. Some things never change.”
“Speaking of which,” I nod toward her laptop, “what exactly are you working on so diligently? State secrets? The next great novel? Scathing review of airline food?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she replies with mock seriousness. “And that would make the rest of this flight terribly awkward.”
“I’ve survived worse threats from prettier faces,” I tease.
“Prettier than mine?” she challenges, eyebrow raised.
I pretend to consider this carefully. “Well, there was this one terrorist in Baghdad who had the most extraordinary eyelashes…”
She swats my arm, laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told. Frequently. Usually by commanding officers and occasionally by the Queen.”
“You’ve met the Queen?” she asks, seeming genuinely curious.
“A gentleman never tells,” I reply mysteriously. “Though I will say she has strong opinions about proper tea preparation.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” she says, though her smile suggests she’s enjoying our game.
“About the Queen or the tea?”
“Both. Neither. I haven’t decided yet,” she admits. “You’re a difficult man to read.”
“Part of my charm,” I say with a confidence I don’t entirely feel. This woman sees more than I’m comfortable revealing, yet somehow I keep talking. “What about you? Easy to read or carefully curated mystery?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she replies, taking another sip of her wine.
“I would, actually,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. “Very much so.”
Something shifts in her expression—a moment of vulnerability quickly masked by playfulness. “Well, you have approximately twenty more hours to figure me out. Better use your time wisely.”
“Challenge accepted.” I settle back into my seat with a smile. “Though I should warn you, I’m very persistent.”
“And I’m very complicated,” she counters. “But I suppose that makes us even.”
“Even isn’t what I’m aiming for,” I reply, holding her gaze until she looks away first.
The flight attendant interrupts our verbal dance, offering dinner options. As Isabel discusses her meal preference, I find myself studying her profile, wondering how a chance airplane encounter has become the most interesting part of my month. There’s something about her—something beyond the obvious beauty and quick wit—that feels important somehow.
