Chapter 41 Maya
MAYA
Istood beside Nate in the middle of Charlotte Douglas International Airport with my passport in my hand and my suitcase at my feet. I felt the distinct, dizzying sensation that I had stepped off a cliff and hadn’t hit the ground yet.
The departures board flickered and reshuffled, destinations cascading down the screen in a rolling wave of white text. Paris. Melbourne. Bangkok. London. A dozen cities, rearranging themselves like the universe was dealing cards and waiting to see which one we’d pick.
Nate’s eyes tracked the board, scanning and discarding options with the efficiency of a man who’d spent a decade moving through airports like they were bus stops. He landed on something, tilted his head, then pointed.
“Two options.” His finger moved to the first listing. “Santorini. Leaves in three hours via JFK. Sun, blue water, good food.” It shifted to the second. “Reykjavik. Four hours, connects through Boston. Glaciers, hot springs, northern lights if we’re lucky.”
Greece. Whitewashed walls and turquoise water and wine with dinner overlooking the caldera. Safe. Beautiful. It was the sort of trip plastered all over Instagram and saved to a board you never actually booked.
Iceland. Volcanic rock and waterfalls and a landscape that looked like it belonged on another planet. Wild. Unpredictable. A trip that would need thermals and courage and the willingness to be very, very cold.
“Okay, so which one?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Up to you.”
Holy fuck. What? “Huh? You aren’t going to decide? Or tell me what you think?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Of course it matters. This is your trip.”
“I’ll be happy either way.” He leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, his expression irritatingly calm. “This one’s yours. “
My gaze returned to the departures screen. Santorini glowed at me, warm and inviting and safe.
Reykjavik sat two lines below it, quiet and unassuming, not trying to sell itself to anyone.
A family with matching luggage tags wheeled past us. An announcement echoed overhead about a gate change for Denver. Nate waited. Patient as stone.
I gnawed at my lip, my gaze locked on the board.
“Slayer.” His voice was low, amused. “It’s not a life sentence. It’s a vacation.”
“I know that.”
“You’re looking at that board like it’s going to explode.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve been thinking for two minutes. Your lip’s going to start bleeding.”
I released my lip. He was right; I was stalling.
Iceland. I wanted Iceland. The word sat right there in the front of my brain, bright and obvious and a little terrifying.
“I think I want… Iceland.”
“You think?”
It took two deeeep breaths for me to calm down enough to speak. “Iceland. But…”
“Oh, here we go. Give me the buts.”
“But the flights will be insane. Last minute, international, that’s going to cost a fortune, Nate.”
He looked at me. Just looked. One eyebrow slightly raised, his expression patient and entirely unmoved. The face of a man who had spent ten years saving military pay and making smart investments and did not, under any circumstances, require my input on what he could afford.
“Okay, fine, but I packed sundresses and sandals. I have one sweater and it’s decorative. I’m not prepared for Icelandic conditions.”
“Me neither. We’ll buy what we need before we board.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, scrambling for one more reason, anything, the flimsiest thread of logic I could grab onto.
“What about the language? I don’t speak Icelandic. I don’t speak anything except English and the three words of Spanish I remember from high school.”
He shrugged. “So I’ll hire an English-speaking guide.”
I stared at him. He stared back. Calm. Steady. Not a single crack in his composure, not a flicker of doubt. Just those blue eyes watching me with the quiet certainty of a man who had already decided this was happening and was simply waiting for me to take the leap.
“Iceland,” I said. No caveat. No qualifier. Just the word, clean and sure.
Nate’s expression softened. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing the curve of my jaw. “There she is,” he said quietly.
My heart flipped over. Was it from the warm glow in his eyes? Or from sheer terror? Maybe a mix of both.
I rose up on my toes, pressed my lips to his, and let the kiss say what my voice couldn’t quite manage. His hand slid to the back of my neck and held me there for a beat longer than appropriate.
The smile that spread across his face when I pulled back was slow and warm and worth every ounce of anxiety thrumming through my veins.
His phone was already in his hand. “Two tickets to Reykjavik,” he said, thumbs moving across the screen. “Done.”
* * *
Four hours later, I was clicking my seatbelt into place in business class.
Business fucking class!
Everything after Nate had said “done” was a blur.
We shopped for thermals, base layers, puffer jackets and proper socks.
Toilet break. Check-in, then wander around the duty-free shops for a bit.
Another toilet break. Burgers at the gate where I’d stolen half his fries because terror made me hungry, apparently.
Boarding call. His hand on my bouncing knee. “Breathe.”
The business class thing, though. That hadn’t registered until he’d handed over the boarding passes and the gate agent had directed us left instead of right.
I stared at the pass. Then at him. Then back at the pass.
“Nate.”
“Mmm?”
“This says business class.”
“Does it?”
“You know it does.”
The corner of his mouth had twitched. “Must have hit the wrong button.”
He had not hit the wrong button.
I poked about the tiny pod. There was a blanket. A real one, not a sheet of tissue paper masquerading as fabric. A pillow that didn’t crunch. A little amenity kit in a zippered pouch that I was absolutely going to keep. Then, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What is it?” He glanced up from his phone.
“Are these pajamas? Like, real pjs, that you wear?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Ooh la fucking la.”
“You’re like a kid at Christmas,” he said, watching me investigate the footrest.
“I’ve never imagined I’d get to turn left on a plane. Let me have this.”
He chuckled.
By the time the cabin crew came through, I’d figured out the footrest, the reading light, the recline function, and the little compartment in the armrest that held a pair of slippers.
Slippers. On a plane. I was never flying economy again.
Nate was going to have to answer for what he’d done to my expectations.
I settled back into my ridiculously comfortable seat and let out a long breath. Then, “Oh, shit.”
“What is it?”
“I promised Mom I’d text her once we were boarded.”
“Oh. Thought you were bailing.”
“Not a chance.”
I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Mom and Dad.
On the plane. Iceland! Will call when we land. Love you.
Dad replied with a thumbs up. Mom replied with fourteen emojis, a voice note I lacked the courage to open, and a follow-up text that said:
TELL NATE TO LOOK AFTER YOU.
I was about to put my phone away when the idea hit me.
A slow, delicious, deeply evil idea. “I need your help with something.”
“Name it.”
“Come here.” I leaned into Nate, angling the camera so the business class cabin was visible behind us.
“Put your arm around me.”
He did. Refusing to think how cute we looked, I snapped the photo.
Then I opened the group chat, attached the photo, and typed:
Me: Heading to Iceland. See you in a week.
Sent.
The replies started before I’d even locked the screen. Three dots. Four dots. Five sets of three dots, all typing simultaneously, the chat equivalent of a room full of people screaming at once.
Hannah: WHAT?
Annie: Oh wow, amazing! Have the best time.
Poppy: EXCUSE ME??????
Hannah: WHAT THE FUCK?
Cassidy: I’m so happy for you
Hannah: EXPLAIN YOURSELF, brOOKES
Emily: Ok, this is very unexpected but also amazing
Mia: You two are too cute for words
Hannah: YOU CANNOT JUST
Samara: We need details
Hannah: DROP THAT AND
I turned my phone off, slid it into the seat pocket, and settled back against the headrest with the most satisfied smile of my entire life.
Nate glanced over. “What are you smiling about?”
“Oh, you know. Just raising a little hell.”