Chapter 3 Sage
SAGE
Airports are honest in a way most places aren’t. No one lingers there without reason. You’re either leaving something behind or heading toward something you hope will be better.
I’ve got a paper cup of bad coffee and a breakup that still feels unreal. I can’t believe I flew overseas for the first time in my life only to get dumped. And it was planned too. Methodically.
I knew something was off. Thought it was proposal nerves.
I’m an idiot.
Connor had already booked himself a different room for the night. I found out when we got to the hotel and he smoothly checked in at the front desk. Said, “I’ll be needing the key to my other room now, thanks.”
This morning, he sent one text—Have a safe flight—and I haven’t answered. I don’t know what I’d say. Thank you for the curated implosion?
When boarding is called, I stand with everyone else and move forward on autopilot.
I didn’t bother styling my hair this morning.
No strategic waves. No careful gloss. None of the stuff I got in the habit of, just so I’d be ready in case he decided he needed a picture.
Today, it’s just a messy bun and yesterday’s eyeliner.
It feels strangely rebellious to look like myself. Pathetic, really.
My ticket is business class. Connor booked us in coach for the price, but I deserve a treat, so I upgraded yesterday.
“Sage Henley, checking in.”
The agent checks her screen. Smiles tightly. “Glad to have you on board, Ms. Henley. Unfortunately, your plane was overbooked. Your seat has been bumped—”
“You have got to be kidding me. This is a joke, right?”
“I’m afraid not.”
My head drops immediately, my hair making a curtain between us.
Yep. Coulda used that extra bobby pin. Now, my hair is half-up and half-down, so I dig out the last of the pins while I whine to the agent.
“Ma’am, what can be done about this? I can’t stay here another minute.
I was just dumped. I am having the worst morning of my life right now. Is there anything you can do for me?”
She winces. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I can provide you with vouchers for a hotel—”
“A hotel? Why not get me onto another flight?”
“You didn’t hear? There’s a nasty late-season snowstorm that’s going to make landing impossible any later than this flight. This is the last plane to Boston for the next twenty-four hours.”
I take a breath. Then another. And another. I’m near hyperventilation when I squeak out, “Are you kidding? Please tell me this is some kind of prank.”
Her brows raise in sympathy. “I truly am so sorry.”
“If I stay here one more day, I might actually lose my mind.”
“If there was anything else I could do—”
“Excuse me.” The voice is low and rich. I look behind me—and the world tilts slightly.
He’s tall. Broad through the shoulders. Silver hair, very short to show off his bone structure. The lines around his dark brown eyes look earned rather than cosmetic, as if he’s lived enough to justify them. There’s nothing flashy about him. Just a nice ivory cable-knit sweater and jeans.
“Did I overhear that her seat was booked out from under her?”
“It’s a busy flight, sir—with the incoming storm, everyone is scrambling to get to Boston—”
“As am I,” he says with a friendly smile. “Seems they’re shutting down the smaller runways, so I have to check in here for my plane.”
She swallows. “I’ll be right with you, mister—”
“Dr. Ronan Callahan.” He turns to me. “And I don’t mean to interrupt, but if you need to get to Boston, there’s room on my plane for another. If you don’t mind a ride with a stranger, that is.”
I half expect this to be a joke. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, aye. I was not looking forward to a lonesome flight, and it wouldn’t be right to leave a woman in need.”
“Um, yeah, that’d be great.” I can hardly believe my luck, but I’m in the right place at the right time, I guess.
“Splendid. Your name?”
“Sage Henley,” I say as I shake his hand. His practically engulfs mine, and I get the scale of him when we’re this close. Easily six-four.
“Pleasure to meet you, Sage.” He turns to the agent. “I’m sure you can refund the ticket she’ll never need to use.”
“Let me see what I can do.” The agent types furiously until she says, “Your ticket will be refunded, and you will be compensated for the inconvenience. Dr. Callahan, I have you checked in for your Boston flight, and your pilot should be arriving shortly. Again, we’re so sorry.”
Considering the upgrade, I feel like I should be thanking her. “I appreciate your help.”
A moment later, the pilot from Ronan’s plane arrives. The man has an attitude about getting bumped onto the bigger runways. Bad luck, he calls it. But it’s only minutes before we’re taken to a shiny private plane, Boston-bound.
As I clip my seat belt in the plush leather seat across from Ronan, I’m not sure what to think about any of this. “I still can’t believe I’m on a private jet.”
He smiles. “First time?” His accent settles into me a second later—Irish, but tempered. Smooth rather than loud. As in, nothing like all the people in that crazy town.
“Yes. This is only my second trip anywhere on a plane, actually. My first time out of the US too.”
“I hope you had a good time.”
The laugh that pops out of me is a bitter thing. “I did at the start. And now, possibly at the end. So, could be worse, I guess.”
“The middle part, not so good?”
“You could say that.”
“Boston is home?” he asks.
“For now. You?”
He nods. “For many years now.” He studies me, not in the scanning way Connor used to—calculating angles and lighting—but with actual attention. “You have the look,” he says calmly, “of someone who expected celebration and received disappointment.”
I blink. Then I laugh, surprised out of myself. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’d say something mysterious like, ‘The Irish are known for their intuition,’ or something equally pretentious, but the truth is in the eyeliner. Looks like it belongs to last night.”
Whatever his deal is, the man makes me smile. Been a while since any man did that. “I didn’t bother taking it off last night. Didn’t bother doing my hair, hence the rat’s nest—”
“I find that rather lovely, actually.”
I stare at him, waiting for a joke. Nothing comes. “You’re serious?”
I can’t tell if he’s smirking or serious when he says, “Tousled hair brings to mind all the things you did to mess it up.”
“Guess you didn’t catch the whole airport debacle. I kind of screwed it up there.”
“Ah. So, no night of fun did that to you, eh?”
Another laugh. “No. Just got dumped yesterday, so the lack of styling is a bit of rebellion. I don’t need to look pretty for him anymore, so…” I sigh, trying to ignore the ache in my chest.
“I see,” he says quietly. “Truly, I am sorry for your loss.”
The pilot warns of takeoff, and soon, the plane levels out above the clouds. The engines hum steadily, and the cabin must have some good soundproofing because this is much quieter than our flight to Ireland.
Ronan folds his coat with careful precision before placing it overhead. Even the smallest movement seems considered. I can’t decide if it’s intimidating or deeply attractive. “Would you care for a cocktail? Might take the sting out of things.”
“Yes,” I answer dramatically, earning his chuckle. We settle on whiskey, which he pours into two glasses.
He lifts his glass. “Here’s to those who have seen us at our worst and at our best and don’t care about the difference.”
“I’ll drink to that.” And I do.
“So you came all the way to Galway for a man?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And he dumped you for that.”
“Not for that,” I explain. “I think I was way more invested than he ever was, and this was a shiny photo op for his social media, nothing more.”
Ronan thinks for a moment. “Sounds like a man who didn’t know what he had when he had it.”
“Accurate. What brought you to Ireland? By the accent, I’m assuming it was family.”
He nods. “We tend to get together a few times a year, St. Patrick’s Day being one of them. Though this time, I wonder whether luck played a role in being here.”
“How’s that?”
“I had thought to skip it this year. My work keeps me busy—”
“Yeah. What is it you do that puts you into a private plane?”
“I’m a cardiologist. I’ve developed some medical devices, as well. And my family owns a chain of laboratories—”
“You’re that Callahan? Callahan Labs?”
He smiles and nods once again. “That’s us. As I was saying, my work keeps me busy, so I’d thought I wouldn’t be able to make it. But then my son said he was coming, and I always try to make time for him whenever I can.” He says that with a tone I don’t like.
“He didn’t make it?”
“No. Busy, I suppose. But that’s life.” His sentence does not invite prying into that, so I don’t. There’s a pause between us that doesn’t feel empty or intrusive.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, the conversation changes shape.
We talk about Boston. About Irish weather. About medicine and consulting and the strange ways ambition can distort people.
“You’re very young,” he says at one point.
“I’m twenty-five. Not so young.”
“I did not imply you were a child,” he replies calmly. “I meant you have time to decide what you will and will not accept.”
“And you? What do you accept?”
“Very little that wastes my time.” There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
“You’re very confident,” I say.
“Success breeds confidence. I have been very successful.” His eyes narrow. “I tend to the careful side of things, though I’ve been known to be reckless now and again. What about you, Sage? Are you a risk-taker?”
“Right now, drinking this delicious whiskey is about the riskiest thing I’ve done in a while.”
Amusement spreads across his face. “How’s that?”
“I’m a personal trainer. I almost never drink—it doesn’t do much for your health. Same with drugs and the like. My body is my resume, so if I don’t keep myself healthy, I lose business.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because being here with you makes me want to be reckless.”
My heart stutters. “Reckless how?”