“Morning. You’re up early. Please tell me you got some sleep.”
He nodded. “Although I might need a chiropractor in the near future.”
She smiled wider, and he had to look away before he combusted. She set her pack down, then went over to the coffee station.
And he let out a breath.
She came back over with her coffee and a fistful of sugar and creamer packets.
He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology. For last night.”
“You already apologized.”
“I know. But I want to say it again now that I’m . . .” He gestured vaguely. “More awake. More myself. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”
“You didn’t put me in any position.” She wrapped her hands around the coffee cup. “It was a port in a storm. And like I said, you didn’t hurt me. All good.”
He studied her face, looking for signs that he’d damaged something. Broken the fragile trust they’d built. But she met his eyes, and he only spotted . . . well, a friend for sure.
Maybe more, if he were a guy who had room in his life for that.
“So. Good news,” he said.
“That’s how I like to start my day.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Hit me.”
He hid a smile. “The tour company a bunch of our fellow passengers were traveling with have chartered a plane to get their group to Cairns and then Sydney. Their insurance covers stranded travelers.” The waitress set down a basket of baked goods—croissants, a Danish pastry. He took a croissant. “I talked to the organizer this morning. Got us on the manifest.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Asked nicely.” He shrugged. “Told her we were traveling together, needed to get to Sydney. They had extra seats.”
She blinked. “We’re joining a tour group?”
“Unless you’ve got a better option. Everything else is booked solid or grounded.”
“No, I—” She paused. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”
He leaned forward. “We don’t have to actually go on tour. We can ditch in Cairns.”
She had taken the Danish. “Speak for yourself there, Bugsy. I might want a tour. Where are they going?”
Bugsy?
“Cairns, Great Barrier Reef, wine country, Melbourne, to see the penguins.” He set the brochure on the table. “The whole tourist experience.” He took another bite. “I was going to be in-country a week early anyway. I suppose if we stick around, it does get us to Sydney.”
“Yes, it does,” she said quietly, as if she was testing the weight of it.
Huh.
“I suppose I could do a few inspections . . .”.
“Plane leaves in two hours,” he said finally.
The charter plane turned out to be a regional jet, big enough for sixty, and the tour company had booked every seat. Dakota’s best guess was that about thirty would stick around for the tour.
Dakota recognized some faces from the original flight. The bird-watcher with the Hawaiian shirt. The British travel writer. And Vic, of course. Looking slightly better than yesterday but still gripping his armrest like it might save him.
The tour guide—Bonnie—assigned seats as passengers boarded, clipboard in hand and that same relentless cheer.
