A smile threatens to break through my composed expression. “Is that a nice way to ask me if someone will be waiting for me at the airport?”
His eyes lock onto mine, unwavering and direct. “Hmm, yeah, that too.” No pretense, no games—the honesty is refreshing.
“Surely my father will have sent someone,” I reply, automatically defaulting to the reality of my life—choreographed arrivals, security personnel disguised as drivers, the machinations of being a political asset. “I don’t have time for boyfriends. I prefer to focus on my work.” I shrug, the gesture deliberately dismissive, attempting to break the spell he seems to have cast over me. The statement is true enough—my last relationship ended when James decided my career ambitions were “cute” but ultimately incompatible with his vision of a wife.
A flicker of disappointment crosses his features before he masks it. “And that’s a nice way to tell me you wouldn’t come and have coffee with me?”
“Yep,” I reply, popping the ‘p’ with exaggerated finality, trying to sound more convincing than I feel. The words contradict the riot of butterflies in my stomach at the mere suggestion of seeing him beyond this flight.
“Oh, come on, we slept together.” His delivery is so deadpan that for a split second, I almost believe we’ve missed a chapter in our own story.
“What?” My head snaps toward him, heat rushing to my face. “No, we didn’t sleep together, Nate.” My voice carries equal parts outrage and disbelief at his audacity. The practiced line between playful banter and presumption has been crossed, and I feel a flash of indignation. I’m not some easy conquest, some airplane anecdote he can share with military buddies. If he wants my time, my attention—which a traitorous part of me is increasingly willing to give—he needs to earn it.
“A coffee,” he clarifies, eyes dancing with mischief. “I’m not asking you for much. Let’s say to repay me for the fact that you used me as a pillow.”
I open my mouth to deliver a cutting retort, but the words evaporate somewhere between my brain and my lips. His eyes capture mine, and something about their depth—the hint of vulnerability beneath the confidence—makes my heart perform a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest. My brain, typically my most reliable ally, seems to have abandoned its place entirely. What do I have to lose? A coffee wouldn’t breach any professional boundaries, wouldn’t compromise my return to London. After all, as he so bluntly pointed out, we’ve already shared a certain physical intimacy, however innocently. The thought of what might have happened had we been anywhere other than row 24 of a commercial airline sends a shiver of forbidden possibility through me.
I’m about to argue—a knee-jerk reaction to any proposition that threatens my carefully maintained control—and I can see he’s anticipating it, waiting for the verbal parry that follows his thrust. This verbal fencing match amuses him, and if I’m honest with myself (a dangerous proposition at the best of times), I enjoy it too. Talking with him feels surprisingly natural, like slipping into a conversation that was merely paused rather than newly begun. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced in longer than I care to admit—this easy connection, this spark of genuine interest rather than calculated networking.
You wanna play, Nate? Bring it on.
“How about dinner instead?” I counter, deliberately biting my lower lip in a gesture that straddles the line between innocent and provocative. Two can play at whatever game this is.
He leans closer, his gaze so intensely focused on me that I feel it like a physical touch. “Why stop at just one?”
I arch an eyebrow, a silent challenge as I slowly run my tongue across my lips, watching his eyes track the movement. “It depends on if you’re good enough to ignite my curiosity and make me want to know you better.” The words emerge more breathless than I intended, betraying my affected nonchalance.
“Oh, you know I already did.” His confidence would be insufferable if it weren’t so damnably accurate.
“True, but first impressions can be a mirage,” I admit, the playfulness in my voice surprising even me. When was the last time I flirted like this, without agenda or calculation?
“A mirage with a pretty face.” His quick callback to our earlier conversation startles a genuine laugh from me. Apparently, Nate pays attention to details, filing away words for future use. “But this mirage can make you many promises.”
I shrug, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the line. “If the promises aren’t kept, they’re just words in the wind.” The sentiment comes from somewhere genuine—too many political promises, too many personal ones, have dissolved into nothing in my experience.
“I always keep my promises.” There’s something in his tone—a gravity beneath the flirtation—that makes me believe him.
“We’ll see,” I reply, turning to face him fully. The movement brings us perilously close, our faces mere inches apart. The cabin air suddenly feels too thin, my lungs struggling to draw sufficient oxygen. If I leaned forward just slightly, I could finally discover if his lips taste as good as they look. The thought sends heat coursing through me, settling in places that make sitting still a challenge.
“You’re an interesting woman, Isabel, and I really wish…” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes the rest of the cabin fade away. Before he can finish the thought that hangs tantalizing between us, the steward appears at his elbow.
“Excuse me, sir, they want you on the phone.” The interruption feels like being doused with cold water.
Nate stands with a reluctance that’s almost palpable, but before leaving, he leans down, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “I wish to make your dream come true.” The heat of his breath against my sensitive skin sends a cascade of goosebumps down my neck and arm. Then, in a gesture so unexpected and tender it momentarily stops my breath, he presses a kiss to my forehead before walking away.
I remain frozen, my skin burning where his lips touched, my mind spinning with possibilities. The professional seems to have gone temporarily offline, leaving behind a woman I barely recognize.
As I watch him move down the aisle, his confident stride drawing glances from other female passengers, I press my fingers to the spot on my forehead, still warm from his kiss. Whatever game we’re playing has suddenly become much more dangerous—and I’m no longer certain I want to win so much as I want to keep playing.
After my last relationship, I’d decided to stay as far away from men as possible.
Men, in my experience, are too jealous, too immature, too self-centred, and, often, unbearably boring once you scratch beneath the surface. If they seem perfect initially, it inevitably turns out that behind that perfection lurks a completely different person—usually one who expects you to shrink yourself to accommodate their ego. My father’s political associates all have wives who gave up promising careers to become professional hostesses and child-rearers. Even my father, progressive public image notwithstanding, expected my mother to sublimate her own diplomatic talents to support his ascension.
Yet Nate seems different in ways I can’t quite articulate. And I know I just met him but I feel comfortable with him, which never happens with strangers—especially male ones. Years of being Lucas Barlow's daughter have taught me to be guarded, to assume everyone has an agenda. But with Nate, conversation flows with surprising ease. I feel safe, which intrigues me even more than his obvious physical attributes. There’s something solid about him, a quiet confidence that doesn’t demand constant validation. The military background explains some of it, perhaps, but there’s something more—a genuineness that cuts through my usual defenses.
The minutes after he leaves stretch uncomfortably. I stare at my laptop screen without really seeing it, the half-finished speech forgotten as I replay our conversation, analyzing each word, each look. Did I seem too eager? Too aloof? The teenage insecurity of these thoughts irritates me, yet here I am, mentally dissecting a flirtation like I’m sixteen again.
Time passes. The flight attendants begin preparation for landing, collecting headphones and ensuring tray tables are stowed. Still no Nate. I find myself glancing repeatedly toward the front of the cabin, expecting his tall figure to reappear at any moment with some explanation and that disarming smile. My disappointment grows with each passing minute, a heaviness settling in my chest that seems entirely disproportionate to a brief airplane encounter.
