Chapter 2
ADELAIDE
Seattle is gray outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
There are delays on the board, which means I’ve got time, and I found the last available corner seat in this lounge.
I’ve got a plate of things I picked up from the buffet, and I’m approximately forty seconds away from becoming a functioning human being again after a grueling journey involving two layovers and extended waits.
The lounge pass is a leftover from my old life, one of those work perks you accumulate without noticing and then suddenly appreciate enormously when your life implodes and you find yourself booking a last-minute multi-stop flight to Hawaii to get absolutely blasted with your bestie, Clio.
The corner seat is perfect. Tucked away, sight line to the door, close enough to the window to watch the gray sky do its thing.
I put my small pink carry-on next to the chair—I can see other people have done the same with their bags—unzip my coat, and take it off before pressing it into my bag, and then I finally sit down.
Then nature makes other plans.
I eye the bathroom sign. Eye my bag. Eye the bathroom sign again.
I’ll be thirty seconds. The bag is right there. Everyone does this.
I go.
In and out in under a minute, stopping to wash my hands and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, which I immediately regret because I look exactly like someone who has been in airports for too many hours and slept approximately none of them.
The dramatic eye makeup I put on has done its best, but its best has limits. I fix what I can with my thumb.
I come out thinking about whether the buffet has those little cheese things, needing more food on my plate, and almost walk directly into chaos.
Two airport staff members stand close, in addition to a man in a very well-pressed suit with his hands out in a gesture of reasonable innocence.
Then there’s a tall man in a beat-up jacket.
He’s large and frowning and could easily rearrange furniture with one hand, but he’s also currently being spoken to in the careful tone people use on things they’re not sure how to handle.
And my small pink carry-on bag is sitting in the middle of all of it.
Like exhibit A.
I don’t think. I walk straight into it.
“That’s my bag.”
Everyone stares my way. The suit man appears relieved, exhaling loudly. The large man in the beat-up jacket stares at me and then at the bag, and something in his expression shifts, like a piece of information has just slotted into place.
And then I actually study him.
He is, without any reasonable doubt, the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in an airport, or a lounge, or possibly anywhere.
He has light brown hair, short and messy, and hazel eyes that are currently catching the flat light from the windows and appearing as a stronger color of green and gold.
He’s built, and his beat-up jacket is doing absolutely nothing to disguise how broad he is through the shoulders, packed with strength.
He’s got a single silver ring on his right hand and has a jaw that should come with some kind of public safety warning.
I realize I’ve been staring for slightly too long when he raises one eyebrow at me.
I glance down at my bag.
The male staff member asks for my boarding pass and ID, then checks the tag I always keep on my bag, confirming that the details match.
“This gentleman,” the female staff member begins, gesturing at the large man, “claims he saw this other gentleman attempting to take your bag, ma’am.”
“I did see it,” the large man states. His voice is low and even, not defensive, not rattled. Just stating a fact. “He had his hand on the handle and was walking toward the exit.”
“That’s completely untrue,” the suit says with outrage, his brow furrowing.
The guy is thin with wide shoulders, short, dark hair, long face, nothing that really stands out about him.
“I was trying to alert a member of staff because I spotted this man watching your bag and then tampering with it. I was doing the right thing.”
“By picking it up and walking away with it?” the large man barks back.
“I was moving it to the desk.”
“The desk is in the opposite direction to where you were walking,” he says, voice slightly clipped.
“Gentlemen,” the male staff member says, breaking the growing tension.
Staring at both men in question, then at my bag, I make a decision, fast, or we’ll be here until next Christmas.
“I honestly can’t believe I did this,” I say to the female staff member, with the most exhausted, self-deprecating energy I can produce, which, right now, is substantial because it’s also real.
“I just ran to the bathroom for literally thirty seconds and left my bag right there. I know, I know—I shouldn’t have.
Is there any chance I can just take it and we can all move on? ”
“We do need to establish what happened,” she replies apologetically.
“Of course, absolutely. I understand.” I smile at her. “Should we look at the footage from this room? That’d sort it out quickly, right?”
The suit shifts slightly. The large man stands with his hands in his jacket pockets, appearing completely, almost irritatingly, unperturbed. Like this is mildly inconvenient at most. As if he’s watched situations get resolved before and he’s confident this is going to be one of them.
I try not to stare at him. I manage this for about four seconds.
Which is honestly impressive, considering the man looks as though he was built to draw attention.
My gaze drops before I can stop it, catching on the sheer size of him, the thick line of his thighs under blue jeans, the heavy shape between them that causes heat to lick up my spine at the worst possible moment.
Seriously? Now? My eyes snap upward so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
He glances at me sideways and catches me doing it.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, low enough that it doesn’t carry to the staff.
“I haven’t thanked you yet,” I say.
“I know.” The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Because I don’t know if you actually did anything yet.”
“You know,” he states.
“I know nothing,” I tell him. Then, because that almost smile is annoyingly smug, I add under my breath, “And don’t start looking pleased with yourself. I haven’t decided if I owe you anything yet.”
The corner of his mouth moves again. Definitely an almost smile.
The suit takes this opportunity to lean slightly toward me with the expression of a man positioning himself as the reasonable party.
“I’d be very careful,” he murmurs, in a low, confiding tone.
“I don’t know what this gentleman told you, but I’ve been watching him since the gate, and his behavior has been quite suspicious. ”
“His behavior?” I ask.
“He’s been loitering. Studying people’s belongings, acting all helpful.”
“Wait, he was watching my belongings,” I say. “That’s what you just said.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“So which is it—he was suspiciously watching bags, or he was helpfully watching my bag?”
The suit opens his mouth. Closes it.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m defending Sexy Airport Vigilante like I know anything about him.
Once upon a time, I would’ve said I was a good judge of character.
Then again, I also dated Daniel, and he turned out to be a killer, so clearly my instincts come with some fairly catastrophic blind spots.
Another staff member appears with a handheld tablet and two security guards who have the broad, unhurried energy of people who do this regularly, and they gather around the screen and watch for approximately forty-five seconds.
The suit knows what’s on the footage. I can tell by the way he goes very still in a completely different way from the large man’s stillness.
One of the security guards glances up from the tablet and says directly at the suit, “Sir, we’re going to need you to come with us. Our system has also identified you, and it’s not the first time you’ve attempted to steal bags.”
“This is absurd,” the suit blurts out.
My stomach twists hard. The sheer nerve of him, as he tried to take my bag. He deserves all the punishment coming his way.
“It’s really not,” the guard answers in a tone that suggests he’s said this a lot.
And then, with very little ceremony and a lot of his continued objections fading down the corridor, the suit is gone.
I glance at my bag and grab it by the handle, rolling it closer to my side. “Thank you,” I say to the large man, and I mean it properly this time.
“You’re welcome,” he says. No I told you so. No performance of it. Just quiet and easy, like it’s already done and he’s moved on.
The male staff member appears mortified. He’s sympathetic to us, and then says, “We’d like to offer you each a small apology for the trouble.” He produces two vouchers, and I read them. Then I read them again. “To bump you both up from economy to first class.”
First class. Seattle to Oahu.
I reread the vouchers once more, then stare up at the staff member, stunned. “Thank you. Seriously. Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome,” he says with a bright, tired smile.
The large man dips his head. “Appreciate it.”
The staff member gives us both one last polite nod before heading back behind the desk, leaving the two of us standing there with matching boarding vouchers.
“Well,” he says. “Congratulations. You’re coming to Hawaii with me.”
I glance up at him, and a laugh slips out before I can stop it. “When you say it like that, it sounds far more intimate than I think you planned.”
That not-quite-smile touches his mouth again. “Fair.”
I stare back down at the voucher, still half convinced it might vanish if I look away too long. “Still. This is… kind of amazing.”
“It is,” he admits.
I fold the paper carefully and tuck it into my bag. “I suppose this is the part where I properly thank you.”
“I was wondering.”
“There it is,” I murmur. “A little bit smug.”
“Only a little?”
That gets another laugh out of me.
He puts his hand out. “Ace.”
“Adelaide.” I shake it.
He’s close enough now that I inhale his scent beneath the recycled airport air, the general scent of too many people, and the Seattle winter blown in from outside. Ocean salt. Something tropical like guava. And underneath both of those, a hint of basil crushed between your fingers.
My brain just… stops.
Huh.
I know scent attraction is a thing. Omegas and Alphas can react on some strange chemical level that makes everyone around them unbearably smug. I’m also aware that has never happened to me. Not once in my twenty-four years. I’ve been around Alphas my whole life and felt absolutely nothing.
Until now, apparently.
Which is inconvenient.
And a little bit fascinating.
So this is probably just exhaustion, and stress, and the fact that he’s extremely attractive and he protected my pink carry-on bag in a Seattle airport without being asked.
Basic hero stuff. I’m responding to the heroism.
That’s what this is.
He drops my hand and takes a small step back, and my body notices immediately. Which is ridiculous. It’s not like he took the oxygen with him, but it just feels, briefly and annoyingly, like he did.
Definitely still the heroism.
“Were you waiting for your flight here?” I ask, then immediately want to take it back because obviously he was. He was in the lounge, existing, near me, smelling unfairly good.
His mouth widens into a grin. “Nope. I just wander into airport lounges looking for women with pink luggage to impress.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Good to know you have a system.”
“It’s served me well so far.”
“Has it?”
“Ask me again in Hawaii.”
That releases butterflies through my stomach.
“Got delayed,” he adds. “Weather.”
“Same. Where were you before Seattle?”
“New York, visiting friends.” He tips his head. “You?”
“Whispering Grove.” I pause. “Small mountain town.”
“Sounds fake.”
“It’s not.” I huff.
“It sounds fake in a very pretty way.”
I smile. “It’s very pretty itself.”
His eyes stay on me for a beat too long. “You say that like you miss it already.”
The comment catches me off guard. “Maybe I do.”
He nods once as if he understands more than I meant to give away.
Then his scent curls through the air again, and my whole body goes a little too alert.
Heat glides through me, sudden and disobedient, and I have to lock my knees to keep from doing something embarrassing like visibly reacting to a man standing there talking about airport delays.
His gaze lowers, then comes back to my face. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” I say, which would be more convincing if I didn’t sound slightly breathless.
A slow, dangerous sort of amusement touches his mouth. “You don’t look perfect.”
“Wow. What a thing to say to a woman.”
“I meant flustered.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“That’s not better.”
“It was a little better.”
I should stop smiling at him. I really should.
Our flight gets called over the speaker for boarding.
“That’s us,” I say.
“Yep,” he agrees.
He appears as though he’s about to say something else, then checks his jacket pocket. “I need to grab something. I’ll be two minutes.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll head to the gate.”
He steps back, then pauses. “Try not to fall in love with me before boarding.”
I stare at him.
He gives me that almost smile again and turns away before I can recover enough to answer.
I stand there for a second after he leaves, and then I very calmly and rationally grab my bag, exit the lounge, get approximately fifteen feet down the corridor, and fan myself with my boarding pass like the genuinely unhinged person I’m evidently becoming.
Okay. That was absolutely something, and I don’t have the bandwidth for it right now.
I’m also probably never going to see him again after this flight, and that’s completely fine.
His scent remains lodged somewhere behind my sinuses, and he has that jaw and those hands and that specific quality of calm that somehow makes the wildness underneath it worse, but he’s gone now and I need to get on a plane and sleep for five hours.
I head to the counter near my gate and hand over my voucher to get my new boarding pass for first class. While the lady does that, I glance around, seeing no sign of Ace. Not that I should care, because I don’t. In no time, I grab my ticket and head on board.
Once I’m on the plane, I fasten my seat belt, settle back, and tell myself I am going to sleep from here to Oahu.
No thinking about his voice, or the way his scent got under my skin, or the fact that I am apparently one charged look away from behaving like I’ve never met a hot man before in my life.
Easy.