Flights and Sights (Foggy Basin Season 3)

1. Chapter 1 - Paxton

Grateful that I’d made my connection, and didn’t have to sprint through the Denver airport to catch my flight, I boarded my next plane, backpack snugly on my back so as not to bump into any other patrons as I walked down the aisle to my seat, tugging my rolling bag behind me.

I made my way to the middle of the plane, just before the wing, spotting a guy already in the window seat of my row, eyes tightly shut.

It only took me a second to heft my rolling bag up and into the overhead bin before I shrugged off my backpack, stuffed it under the seat in front of me, and settled into the middle of the row.

As I sat, I looked longingly at the currently empty aisle seat, but I was a rule-follower and my ticket said that the middle seat was mine.

Maybe I’ll move if nobody takes the aisle, I thought as I buckled up.

The guy in the window seat, who looked about the same age as me, was doing some deep breathing, slow and even, his head leaned against the window.

I’d never been a huge fan of flying, but this was something else entirely. I shook my head, tucked my earbuds in, and tried to ignore the—admittedly kind of hot—guy sitting next to me. He seemed tense, but otherwise fine, and it was really none of my business how he was doing, anyway.

A little while later, just as the plane began taxiing the runway, the guy next to me reached out blindly and gripped my hand. My stomach did a weird sort of tumble.

“Um, are you okay?” I asked as quietly as possible over the roar of the engines.

The guy looked at me then, opening his eyes for the first time that I’d noticed since I’d boarded the plane. They were hazel, almost hidden behind his black glasses, and there was fear in them. He blinked at me a few times and glanced down at our hands.

“Sorry.” He pulled back quickly and balled his hand into a fist, the other one white-knuckling the armrest.

“Hey,” I murmured. “It’s okay. You’re nervous about the flight?”

He nodded. “Very.”

“It’s going to be fine.” At that moment, the plane lifted into the air and the guy’s fist tightened.

I reached over and took his hand in mine again.

“It’s going to be fine,” I repeated. “Squeeze as hard as you need to.” While the guy took deep breaths and squeezed my hand, I talked to him in low, calming tones.

“My name is Paxton, but my friends call me Pax. What’s yours? ”

“Callum… Sinclair,” he said through gritted teeth as the landing gear tucking in made the entire plane shudder.

“Can I call you Cal?”

He looked at me then, his hazel eyes bright and curious. “I… guess so.”

“People don’t call you that?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you not like it?”

Cal shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I don’t mind it. I don’t know… people just don’t.”

I put my free hand on top of his. “I will, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, giving me a small smile.

“Where are you headed, Cal? Are you visiting or going home?”

“Visiting. My family is from California, near San Diego, and I’ve made my home on the East Coast.”

I chuckled softly. “My family’s from near Sacramento.”

“You’re visiting too?” Cal asked, eyebrows raised.

I shook my head. “I still live out there. Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure, I guess, if you can call it that. Family reunion. We do it once every couple of years. A whole month of festivities. Gives everyone a chance to come in from out of town, stay as long as they want, leave when they need to. My parents always pick a different town and rent a big house, usually one with a huge backyard and a pool.”

“The pool sounds nice, but the month-long reunion part sounds like torture.”

Cal chuckled and nodded. “It’s not my favorite thing in the world. This year I’m working while I visit, though.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

Cal turned to face me, his back to the window, and took a shaky breath, our hands still joined. “I’m a writer. For a magazine.”

“That’s pretty cool.” I paused a moment. “Wait—a travel writer who hates to fly?”

Cal shrugged. “I didn’t set out to get into travel writing. It was sort of an accident. I love everything about it except for the planes. Usually I can take a pill for my anxiety and it goes okay, but I ran out. What about you?”

I nodded, appreciating his honesty about mental health. It was refreshing to see someone not afraid to talk about their struggles, rather than feeling ashamed. “Family business. I run a meadery.”

Cal laughed again. “That’s way cooler.”

As he laughed, my gaze flickered down to his lips and back to his hazel eyes.

I tried to focus on anything else—his dark, mid-length hair, the five-o’clock shadow on his face, his long neck with a prominent Adam’s apple.

That last one pulled me up short and I closed my eyes briefly and shook my head.

“It is pretty cool,” I said finally, returning to the conversation.

A moment later, I tilted my head toward the flight attendant who was coming down the aisle. “Looks like the worst is over.”

“For now.” He loosened his grip on my hand and slid it back to his lap, running the other hand through his hair. A few strands fell on his forehead and I had the strangest urge to brush them away for him.

We both closed our eyes for a while, though I’m not sure either one of us fell asleep.

I definitely didn’t, far too aware of his body next to mine to get any sort of rest. After what had to have been an hour, I opened my eyes and saw Callum looking at me.

A few moments of silence passed before he spoke. “Sacramento, huh?”

I nodded. “I live near there, yeah.”

“What were you traveling for? Visiting a friend?”

“No, I was on a business trip, actually. There was a conference.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? A mead-making conference?”

“I know. It’s hard to believe if you’re not in the industry. I feel like there’s probably a conference for just about anything you can think of, being held somewhere.”

“How did the conference go? Did you learn anything?”

I was sure he was just asking to be polite, but I launched into a description of the branding lecture I went to, the tasting sessions, and the competition at the end of the conference.

“And you entered your mead in the competition?”

I nodded. “We won a gold medal for Best Legacy Brand in the sweet category.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s impressive. Right?”

I chuckled and nodded again. “It’s not bad. I’m proud of it.”

“What’s a legacy brand?”

“A brand that’s been around since nineteen eighty or earlier.

We’ve been around for a long time. My grandparents founded the meadery in the sixties, one of the first in the US.

When they got to the age where they were ready to retire, my uncle took over.

Now it’s my turn.” Another quiet moment passed. “Tell me about your family reunion.”

“Oh, man.” Cal rolled his eyes. “What’s there to tell?”

“What can you possibly do for a whole month?”

He laughed. “Good point. Most of the activities are on the weekends. Weekdays are for a little local sightseeing and big family dinners, but come Saturday and Sunday, it’s game on. Scavenger hunts, cooking competitions, taking group classes, a talent show, lawn games, you name it.”

I couldn’t stop the smile that spread slowly over my face. “A talent show?”

He looked away with a soft smile, his cheeks turning pink, visible through the stubble. “A talent show.”

“Please tell me your talent is something incredible, like playing music on water glasses or juggling or breathing fire.”

“Nothing so exciting.”

“Wait—sword swallowing. That’s it, isn’t it?”

His cheeks really reddened then, my stomach swooping. “I play guitar. I told you. Boring.”

“That’s not boring at all. I don’t play any instruments. I don’t have any hidden talent at all.”

“You make mead. That’s a talent all on its own.”

“Eh.”

“Well, guitar playing isn’t quite as sexy as breathing fire or sword swallowing, so compared to your list, I thought you’d find it boring.”

“Guitar players are so sexy,” I countered.

Before I could say anything else, the captain came over the loudspeaker and announced our descent and imminent landing.

Cal’s eyes widened a little and he took a deep, shaky breath. “Fuck me,” he muttered.

God, would I love to. The thought went tumbling through my brain before I could stop it. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? He’s probably straight. I offered him my hand with a gentle smile and he took it gratefully.

“We'll get through this together,” I murmured to him.

When he looked at me, trust in his eyes, I winked at him.

He let out a soft sigh at that. As the plane descended and ultimately hit the runway, I talked Cal through it, telling him bad jokes and probing him for more information about the family talent show that I was becoming obsessed with.

Eventually, we landed, safe and sound in Sacramento and I reluctantly pulled my hand out of his.

“Well,” I said as the plane doors opened. “I guess this is goodbye.”

Cal frowned and nodded. “Thanks for your help, Pax. I really appreciate it. More than I can say.”

“It was my pleasure.” I had the urge to offer him my number or ask for his, but I knew it was futile, with him only visiting for a few short weeks. Maybe we’d manage a single hookup while he visited if we exchanged numbers, but that’s all it could be and I decided against tempting fate that way.

As I stood and grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment, I glanced down to see Cal’s gaze fixed on my body.

It lit me up inside, the idea that he might be interested, too, and as I carefully lowered my bag, my jeans felt noticeably tighter.

I sighed softly to myself and grabbed my backpack. “See you next time, Cal.”

He gave me a shy smile. “Thanks again, Pax. Next time.”

The following day, I headed to the meadery in the late morning.

Once I let myself in, I grabbed a damp cloth and a bottle of sanitizing solution to spray down the tables.

One thing I loved about taking the opening shift was the quiet before the storm—the noise of patrons chattering, the music on the loudspeakers playing, the clack and clatter of glassware as mead was served.

None of that had started yet when I came in and opened the taproom, and I enjoyed the solitude.

Of course, I enjoyed having customers there, too, for so many reasons, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

Once I was satisfied that the tables were done, I moved to the bar top itself, a wood slab covered in a thick, clear epoxy, wiping any spots that were still left from the night before, when my usual bartender and best friend, Tommy, had closed up for the night.

He was good about keeping a tidy tasting room, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like to go over it again, just in case.

I moved around, checking the bathrooms to be sure they were well-stocked, tidying the games shelves, and straightening furniture, before I went to the back and tended to the meads, checking to ensure the fermentation barrels were at the right temperature, that the aging barrels were looking good, and that the batches that needed aeration got their daily attention.

By the time I had cleaned and prepped and checked everything, the clock was showing noon and it was time to open up the tasting room for the day.

I went to the front door and unlocked it, noticing a person sitting on the porch, apparently waiting for me to open for the day.

They looked vaguely familiar from behind, from their mid-length dark hair to the set of their shoulders.

“Hey there,” I said. “You can come on in.”

The person stood and turned to face me and my stomach did that weird little twist it had done on the plane. Standing in front of me was Callum Sinclair.