The recognition is physical first—a tightening in my stomach, a strange, disorienting pull, like gravity has shifted direction without warning. My breath catches, and for a split second,I consider the very mature, very adult option of pretending I didn’t notice and hoping the universe reroutes him somewhere else.
It doesn’t.
He’s walking toward us with the same unhurried confidence he had the night I met him, like crowds are inconveniences rather than obstacles. The guitar case is gone, replaced by a camera bag slung over one shoulder, but it doesn’t soften him. If anything, it makes him look more dangerous—civilian camouflage stretched over something that doesn’t belong in public spaces.
My one-night stand. At the airport. Again. I stare, brain stuttering uselessly, while Addison squints past me.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Is that—?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Shut up.”
She does not shut up.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, eyes lighting up with feral delight. “It’s cinnamon.”
I hiss her name, mortified, but it’s too late. He’s close enough now that there’s no pretending. No graceful exit. No alternate reality where this is not happening.
He stops in front of us. Up close, he’s exactly as I remember—tall, broad, all quiet edges and contained tension. His hair istied back again, his beard neatly trimmed but still wild. He looks uninterested and bored, like seeing me again has no effect on him at all, which stings more than it should.
“Addison Avery Sinclair,” she introduces brightly, stepping forward and extending a hand. “You must be our photographer.”
He hesitates for the briefest moment before taking it. His grip is firm and professional. “James,” he replies. “James Smith.”
I snort. The sound escapes me before I can stop it, sharp and disbelieving.
Smith? How dull.
His eyes flick to mine then, dark and unreadable, giving nothing away. No recognition. No flicker of familiarity. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I imagined the entire night.
“Smith?” I repeat, one brow lifting. “Really?”
Something shifts in his expression—not amusement, exactly, but awareness. Like he clocks the challenge and files it away.
“Yes,” he replies evenly, adjusting the strap of his camera bag. “We should board.”
The tone is clipped and efficient. A dismissal.
Addison, bless her, doesn’t miss a thing. “You don’t look like a Smith,” she says conversationally as we start walking. “No offense.”
He shrugs. “I get that a lot.”
“And last time I saw you,” I add, unable to stop myself, “you had a guitar.”
He glances at me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “I’m a man of many trades.”
I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Of course you are.”
We reach the gate, and the attendant checks his credentials without a second glance. When we board, he moves ahead of us without hesitation. His seat is further away from ours—like it was deliberately picked that way.
Message received.
I sink into my seat, pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with travel anxiety. Addison buckles in beside me, eyes bright with curiosity.
“Well,” she murmurs. “This trip just got very interesting.”
I stare straight ahead, heart thudding as the plane begins to taxi. Interesting is one word for it. Uncomfortable is another.
6
