Pretty.
He filed her away and fell in behind.
The queue shuffled forward. Ahead of him, an elderly man with binoculars around his neck was photographing a gecko. The Hawaiian shirt could be seen from space.
“Magnificent specimen,” the man murmured, snapping another photo of the gecko. “Hemidactylus frenatus, if I’m not mistaken. Common house gecko. Though what it’s doing inside the airport is anyone’s guess.”
Dakota blinked. “You’re a gecko expert?”
The man beamed. “Bird-watcher, actually. Gerald Hoffman. But I dabble in herpetology when opportunity presents itself.” He extended a weathered hand. “Headed to Australia for the spring migration. Should be spectacular this time of year.”
“Dakota.” He shook the offered hand. “And I’ll have to take your word on the birds.”
“Oh, you should see the riflebirds. The way they display—” Gerald launched into a detailed description of mating dances and plumage that Dakota only half absorbed, his attention snagged by a man who’d just joined the line behind him.
Mid-forties. Average build. Wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusted. Khaki pants, blue button-down—rumpled, slightly untucked on one side. The kind of guy who blended into the background of every corporate office in America.
He had the same gray rolling bag as Dakota.
The man caught Dakota looking and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry—am I standing too close? I never know the right amount of personal space in these lines.” He shuffled back a half step, hands fidgeting with the strap of his bag. “Sorry. Sorry. Long day.”
“You’re fine,” Dakota said.
“It’s just—I really hate flying. Well, hate is a strong word. More like barely controlled terror.” The man laughed, a nervous sound that came out slightly too high. “I’m Vic, by the way.”
Dakota’s threat assessment took approximately half a second. Nervous flyer. Probably worked in IT or accounting. Zero tactical awareness—he’d positioned himself with his back to the entire terminal, completely exposed.
Harmless.
“Long flight ahead,” Dakota offered, because the guy looked like he could use the distraction.
“Eleven hours.” Vic’s face went slightly gray. “I’ve already taken two Dramamine. They don’t help. Nothing helps. I once read that the most dangerous parts of a flight are takeoff and landing, which means a longer flight is actually safer since most of it is cruising, but somehow that doesn’t make me feel better at all.”
Ahead of him, the dark-haired woman finished saying something to a cool blonde at the kiosk—the blonde nodded once and turned away. Then the brunette’s eyes found his.
Her expression sat somewhere between sympathetic and amused. Up close, she was even prettier than he’d registered before. Sharp eyes, the color of dark whiskey. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth.
“I know all the statistics,” Vic continued. “I’ve memorized them. It doesn’t help.”
“Find a good movie. That might help.”
Vic managed a weak laugh. “Thanks. I’ll try.”
The woman turned back around, and Dakota caught a whiff of something—jasmine, maybe—underneath the generic smell of airport and recycled air.
The line crept forward. Dakota watched a couple with matching luggage tags—European, by the cut of their clothes and the way they stood too close together—approach the desk. The man had military bearing, eyes that swept the room once before settling. The woman wore a sundress and a straw hat, one hand resting on his arm.
A woman in white linen, gold flashing at her ears, cut through the crowd, camera in hand, photographing the gate desk with the intensity of someone documenting a crime scene. She caught Dakota watching and lifted her chin. “Travel writer,” she announced in clipped British vowels, as if this explained everything.
“Congratulations,” Dakota said.
She sniffed and moved on.
Dakota stepped up to the desk and surrendered his bag with more reluctance than he’d admit. The agent slapped a tag on it and directed him toward the jetway.
He added his bag to the others just before he stepped onto the plane and dearly hoped he’d see it again at the end of the flight.
Aircraft seemed to shrink every time he boarded one, and this one felt even smaller, bearing the sort of claustrophobic smell of a plane that had been pressed into service.
