When she turns back to me, catching me watching her, she doesn’t comment on it, just smiles knowingly. And that’s when I realize I might be in more trouble than I initially thought.
The flight attendants clear away our dinner trays, and I find myself surprisingly disappointed that our conversation might end. Dinner had been unexpectedly pleasant—Isabel proving to be as engaging discussing world affairs as she was trading barbs about our privileged upbringings. But as the cabin lights dim and the movie begins playing on the screens, a comfortable silence settles between us.
“I think I’ll try to get some sleep.” She stifles a yawn. “Don’t take this personally, but talking about fathers and expectations has thoroughly exhausted me.”
“Understood,” I reply with a smile. “Daddy issues are remarkably effective sedatives.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “Goodnight, Nate.”
“Sleep well, Isabel.”
I lean my seat back slightly and close my eyes, not really expecting sleep to come. It rarely does easily, especially in public spaces where vulnerability feels dangerous. But the day’s travel, the wine with dinner, and perhaps even the unexpected ease of conversation with Isabel eventually pulls me under.
I’m not sure how long I drift, but I wake to the sensation of movement beside me. Through barely-opened eyes, I see Isabel standing, carefully draping the thin airline blanket over me. I remain perfectly still, my military training making it easy to control my breathing. The truth is I woke from my nap the moment she stood up, but something stops me from letting her know I’m awake. I just don’t want to embarrass her just yet, though seeing her blush makes her even sexier. So I pretend to sleep, curious about this unprompted gesture of consideration.
It’s a nice gesture on Isabel’s part though, and unexpected for sure. Not the kind of thing strangers typically do for each other on flights. As she settles back into her seat, I keep my eyes closed, her name echoing in my mind. Isabel. I love her name. I’ve always liked it.
Somehow Izzy pops in my head. Her parents and mine are still best friends. We’ve been glued together since she could waddle after me through the garden in her diaper. But I’m pretty sure there’s a photo somewhere—me, grinning like a goof; her, a squishy little newborn in my arms. Maybe that was the start of it all. She was my best friend, my partner in crime who helped drive nanny Alice to distraction with our antics. We built forts in the library, stole desserts from the kitchen before dinner, and made-up elaborate stories about the stern ancestors in the portraits.
After her mother died when she was eight, everything changed. The light went out of her eyes for a long time. Her father buried himself in work, no more Friday dinners at mine and soon she left England altogether. And since then, my life has been turned upside down. Little Izzy completed my days, making them unique and fun. But once she left, it was like Dad finally had his chance to mold me into his perfect heir. As if he didn’t really care about me as a person but, instead, cared about what people might think or see when they looked at the future Duke.
It was the period that most marked me. I learned what it really meant to be alone, and I vowed to myself to find my soul mate one day and finally be happy. Unfortunately, the years have passed, military deployments and family obligations filling my life, and I’m still looking for her—that elusive person who might see me as Nate, not as a title or a uniform or an heir.
But little Izzy will always have a special place in my heart. When I’ll be home I have to ask Alice if she has any news from Izzy. Last time I snuck into the office to look her up—using military intelligence resources for personal reasons could land me in serious trouble—I could only find that she went to Switzerland to a prestigious boarding school and a few years later moved to Japan. No socials and found no pictures either. I had to end my research quickly since if someone had caught me, I’d have faced serious consequences.
It would be nice to see her again, though. We were just kids, but the kindness and love I saw in her eyes still make me remember her today. Izzy and nanny Alice were the only people who ever made me feel loved. The only ones who made me feel appreciated and not like I was just a puppet, an heir born to do great things. Who knows what she’s doing now? Who knows if she still remembers me or if I’m just a faded childhood memory?
I open my eyes when the plane goes through a little turbulence, the slight rocking jolting me from my reminiscence. I still can’t sleep for long during flights—too many years of operational awareness have made deep sleep-in vulnerable situations nearly impossible. I envy those who manage to sleep soundly no matter what happens around them.
In the dimmed cabin, I realize Isabel has rested her head on my shoulder, her breathing deep and even. Her face in sleep looks younger, the professional composure replaced by peaceful vulnerability. I know when she wakes up, her neck will hurt in that position. Almost without thinking, I shift in my seat, raise the armrest between us, and gently guide her to lean against my chest instead. As soon as she places her hand on my torso, my heart starts racing madly, and I circle her with my arms in a protective gesture that surprises even me.
Breathing in her floral perfume, I close my eyes feeling a sense of peace rushing through me, and for once I embrace it instead of questioning or resisting.
When Isabel realizes she has slept in my arms, I’m sure she’ll blame me for taking liberties or crossing boundaries. But somehow, it makes me smile because the more she fights me, the more I like it. Her fiery independence and quick wit are refreshing after years of people either following my orders without question or deferring to my title with calculated obsequiousness.
As the plane continues its journey through the darkness, I find myself hoping the flight might last just a little longer than scheduled. For now, in this moment suspended between continents and responsibilities, I’m simply a man holding a beautiful woman, and that feels like more than enough.
Chapter 3
Isabel
“Sunshine?” A deep male voice filters through the warm cocoon of sleep, but I stubbornly cling to this delicious comfort, refusing to open my eyes. The gentle rise and fall beneath my cheek feels too perfect, too secure to abandon for consciousness. “Isabel, wake up!” The whisper brushes against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, so close that I reluctantly force one eyelid to crack open.
When Nate’s piercing gaze meets mine, for one disorienting second I’m convinced I’m still dreaming—one of those mortifyingly inappropriate dreams that leave you blushing in your sleep. But when a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face, reality crashes into me with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. I snap my eyes shut again, a rapid-fire litany of swearwords—until one escapes, low and vicious, under my breath.
It can’t be true. How did I end up in his arms? The heat of mortification crawls up my neck like wildfire. His cologne—that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and something uniquely him—fills my lungs with each breath. I’m pressed against him like we’re pieces of a puzzle, my hand splayed possessively across his chest where I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my palm.
It’s just a dream. Open your eyes, and you’ll see that he’s not there. Just your imagination running wild after too much airplane wine and too little sleep.
I cautiously open one eye again, hoping against hope he’ll have magically transformed into a pillow, but he’s still very much there, looking thoroughly amused by my predicament and showing no signs of moving. The warm weight of his arm around my shoulders is undeniable evidence of my current situation.
“Argh! This can’t be true,” I complain, my voice still raspy from sleep, triggering a deep laugh that I feel rumbling through his chest before I hear it.
“I’ve been a good guy and kept my hands to myself, don’t worry,” he says, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggests he’s not entirely disappointed by our current arrangement.
I slowly extract myself from his embrace, every movement deliberate as I try to salvage whatever dignity might remain. My professional mask refuses to engage, leaving me defenseless against the tide of embarrassment. I know I’m blushing furiously; my cheeks burn with the intensity of a thousand suns. A parade of mortifying questions marches through my mind: Did I snore? Talk in my sleep? Did I… drool? The horror of that possibility alone makes me want to request an emergency parachute and exit the plane immediately.
And did I touch him? Silly question, Isabel, of course I touched him—I was using him as a body pillow. The memory of his solid warmth against me lingers like a phantom sensation, my body reluctant to forget the comfort it found in his arms.
