“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’ sound with infuriating casualness.
“Okay…” I return my attention to the document, but his continued staring makes concentrating impossible. Every nerve ending seems attuned to his presence, aware of each shift in his posture, each breath he takes. He knows exactly what he’s doing, too—the mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth confirms it.
“Could you look out the window or, I don’t know, sleep?” I suggest with an impatient wave of my hand, trying to sound annoyed rather than affected.
“Why, am I distracting you?” he asks playfully, voice low enough that only I can hear the teasing challenge in it.
“Yes,” I fire back without hesitation, my eyes stubbornly fixed on the same line of text I’ve read at least fifteen times without comprehending.
He obligingly turns toward the window, and I exhale slowly, muscles I didn’t realize were tense finally relaxing. But peace is short-lived. Every few minutes, he turns to peek at me from the corner of his eye. When I catch him looking, he quickly pretends to find the endless expanse of clouds absolutely fascinating, though the smile tugging at his lips betrays him.
After several rounds of this childish game, I make a decisive effort to ignore him completely, channeling all my focus into crafting the perfect conclusion for my father’s speech. Writing political oratory has become second nature—I know exactly which rhetorical devices will make listeners lean forward in their seats, which historical references will give gravitas to otherwise empty promises. My father orders, and I execute, as always. The familiar bitterness of that reality tastes like metal in my mouth.
“You misspelled it.”
I blink rapidly, dragged from my concentration. “What?”
“You misspelled it here.” He leans closer, his shoulder pressing against mine as he points to the screen. His proximity sends a ripple of awareness through me, my skin heating where our arms touch. “But it’s interesting. Foreign politics, serious stuff…”
“I haven’t misspelled anything,” I reply, irritation flaring, both at the interruption and at my body’s persistent reaction to him. But when I follow his finger to the word in question, I realize he’s right. The word “commemorate” is missing an ‘m’. Dammit! A rookie mistake my father would never let slide.
He chuckles, leaning even closer until I can feel his breath warm against my ear. “Yes, you did, and you know it.”
“Okay, okay, I did,” I concede with a huff, “but because you’re distracting me.” I turn to face him fully, suddenly aware of how close this brings our faces.
“Me?” His expression of wounded innocence is so exaggerated that I almost laugh despite my frustration.
“Yes, you,” I confirm, trying to sound stern but hearing the smile in my own voice.
I make another valiant attempt to focus on the laptop, but his shameless staring makes concentration impossible. It’s annoying. It’s rude. It’s completely unprofessional. And yet… I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me knowing his eyes are on me, following each small movement of my hands, noting the way I tuck stray strands of hair behind my ear. The attention is like a drug, and I’m horrified to discover how much I crave it.
Four more hours until London. Four more hours of this exquisite torture. Four more hours before we land and go our separate ways, likely never to see each other again. The thought brings an unexpected pang of regret, sharp enough to make me pause mid-sentence.
I’ve spent years building walls around myself, focused solely on career advancement and keeping emotional entanglements at bay. Now, in the span of one transatlantic flight, a stranger with knowing eyes and a teasing smile has somehow found all the cracks in my carefully constructed defenses. The most unsettling part isn’t his persistence—it’s how easily I’ve let him in.
“What can I do for you, Nate?” I finally ask, setting my laptop aside with exaggerated patience, like a teacher humoring a persistent student.
“So many things, baby,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a husky, sensual register that sends electric currents racing down my spine. The unexpected endearment—so presumptuous, so inappropriate—should irritate me. Instead, my body responds with a treacherous warmth that pools low in my abdomen. “Why were you in Melbourne?”
I pause, fingers hovering above the keyboard, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. “For work. And you?” The deflection is automatic—years of press training have taught me to redirect personal questions without appearing evasive.
He nods absently as the steward approaches with coffee, the overhead light catching the angles of his jawline. “Let’s say I’m here to find out about a lie.” The cryptic answer hangs between us as he accepts the cup, takes a sip, and immediately grimaces as though he’s swallowed battery acid. The spontaneous reaction—so different from his carefully cultivated charm—makes me giggle despite myself. “What do you do for a living?”
“Now I’m curious,” I reply, closing my laptop with a soft click. The document can wait; the mystery of this man suddenly seems far more compelling.
He chuckles, triumph flashing in his eyes when he notices my undivided attention. “But you didn’t answer my question.” His persistence reminds me of the barristers I’ve faced in court—always circling back to the unanswered.
“I’m a lawyer,” I offer with a casual shrug, the half-truth rolling easily off my tongue. I’ve learned to selectively edit my biography depending on the audience. “I did a three-year internship at Hamley’s in Melbourne while graduating, and now I’m going back to London. And you?” The firm is real, my work there legitimate, but I carefully omit that my primary occupation has been crafting my father’s political persona through his speeches.
“You already figured out I’m in the army. On leave at the moment, so I decided to come home.”
The revelation clicks into place like the final piece of a puzzle. “So, you just got back from a mission or training period?” The military background explains so much—his watchfulness, the way he scanned the cabin upon boarding, the precision in his movements that I’d attributed to aristocratic upbringing.
His smile is carefully measured. “A mission.”
“I won’t ask you where you were because you couldn’t tell me.” The statement isn’t just politeness; it’s an acknowledgment that we both understand the boundaries of classified information. My father’s position means I’ve grown up around men and women who speak in careful euphemisms about matters of national security.
He nods appreciatively at my understanding. “Do you have any relatives in the army or perhaps a boyfriend?” The question is delivered casually, but I don’t miss the intent behind it.
