Chapter 5 KATE
KATE
The cab smells faintly of stale coffee and someone else’s cologne, the kind that lingers long after the person has gone.
I’m wedged into the backseat, knees pulled in, fingers twisted together so tightly my knuckles ache.
The city slides past the window in blurred streaks of early-morning gray and gold—Los Angeles half-awake and pretending this is just another ordinary day.
It is not.
My stomach has been in free fall since I woke up, that hollow, swooping sensation that usually only comes with bad news or regret. I keep swallowing like I can force it back into place, like my body might listen if I concentrate hard enough.
Across from me, Addison looks… infuriatingly fine.
Her hair is sleek and glossy, pulled back into a low ponytail that somehow looks intentional instead of rushed.
She’s wearing dark jeans, boots, and a tailored coat.
Her makeup is subtle but sharp—clean liner, concealer exactly where it needs to be, lips neutral and perfect.
She looks ready to head towards purpose.
I look like someone who barely survived the night.
My sweater is wrinkled from where I yanked it on half-asleep.
My hair is pulled back in a messy knot that refuses to behave, loose strands already escaping like they know I don’t have the energy to fight them.
I skipped makeup entirely except for a rushed swipe of concealer under my eyes, and it shows.
My head throbs in time with the bumps in the road, a dull, insistent reminder that I didn’t sleep well while preparing for this trip.
Addison watches me over the rim of her coffee cup, eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I mutter.
“The quiet spiral. You get this look like you’re internally drafting your own obituary.”
I close my eyes briefly. “I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
The cab hits a pothole, and my stomach lurches dangerously close to rebellion. I groan and press my forehead to the cool glass of the window.
“Breathe. You’re not dying. You’re just anxious,” she soothes.
“I’m not anxious,” I reply weakly.
She snorts. “Kate. You agreed to fly to Somalia. Anxiety is implied.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again because she’s not wrong. Somalia still doesn’t feel real. It feels like a word on a screen, a headline—somewhere far away that exists in theory but not in my reality.
And yet here I am, in a cab, on my way to the airport, with a passport in my bag and a pit in my stomach.
“I don’t know why I said yes,” I lament with a groan.
Addison softens, just a fraction. “Because you’re curious, good at what you do, and because sometimes stepping out of your comfort zone is how you grow.”
I glance at her. “Did you read that on a motivational poster?”
She grins. “Maybe.”
The cab slows as the airport comes into view—glass and steel rising ahead of us, familiar and suddenly menacing. My pulse picks up, fast and shallow, and I curl my fingers into the strap of my bag.
Addison reaches across the seat and squeezes my knee. “Hey. We’re not going to a warzone. We’re covering peace talks. You’ll be with me the whole time.”
I nod, even though the reassurance barely scratches the surface.
The cab pulls into the drop-off lane, and the driver pops the trunk. I take one last steadying breath before opening the door, cold air rushing in and snapping against my skin.
This is happening, whether I’m ready or not.
I step out onto the pavement, the airport looming above us, and my stomach flips hard enough that I have to pause. Something about this feels like standing on the edge of something irreversible, and I don’t know yet how far the fall goes.
The moment I step inside, it hits me.
Not the noise, though the airport is already alive with it—rolling suitcases and overlapping announcements and voices layered on top of one another—but the memory. It slides under my skin before I can brace for it, like my body has been waiting for this exact set of cues.
The rooftop flashes behind my eyes without permission—cold air, city lights, his hands, mouth, and the way silence wrapped around him. I feel it low in my stomach, the echo of something reckless and unrepeatable.
“Kate.”
Addison’s voice snaps me back. I blink and realize she’s watching me closely, head tilted, a knowing little smile already forming. “You just went somewhere.”
“I did not,” I protest.
“You absolutely did.” She leans closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to share a state secret. “You were thinking about him.”
“I was not.”
She lifts a brow. “Cinnamon?”
I grimace. “Please don’t.”
“Oh, I will. Because that face? That is not a woman thinking about baggage claim. That is a woman remembering questionable life choices.”
I sigh, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder and forcing myself to keep moving. “It was one night.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It meant nothing.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I shoot her a look. “Stop making noises like that.”
She laughs, unfazed. “I’m just saying, airports are very romantic for you lately. First birthday sex with a mysterious bearded man, now an international assignment. Very cinematic.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She’s right, and that somehow makes it worse.
We make our way toward the check-in counters, and I deliberately keep my eyes forward this time, refusing to let them drift back toward the elevators or the stairwell that leads up to the rooftop. I don’t need to see ghosts where none exist.
We drop our bags, collect our boarding passes, and move toward security. The routine motions help a little: shoes off, laptop out, liquids displayed like confessions. It gives my hands something to do other than tremble.
Once we’re through, Addison glances at her phone, then at the departure board. “The gate hasn’t changed, but boarding should’ve started by now.”
I frown. “Why aren’t we boarding?”
“We’re waiting on someone.”
“Who?”
She checks her phone again. “Our photographer.”
I blink. “What photographer?”
Addison rolls her eyes. “Our photographer, photographer. Apparently, every single one at the office suddenly discovered a deep moral opposition to Somalia.”
I snort despite myself. “Really?”
“Really,” she confirms. “Marianne said they all suddenly had sick parents, fragile pets, or spiritual awakenings.”
“Wow.”
“Bunch of pussies,” she adds flatly.
I laugh, then sober as the implication sinks in. “So… we outsourced?”
“Yep.”
I glance around the gate area, unease prickling at the back of my neck. Waiting has never been my strong suit. Too much room for thoughts to spiral, for anticipation to turn into something darker.
I shift my weight, hugging my arms around myself as the airport hums around us. Something about this feels off. Not wrong, exactly. Just… charged. Like the air before a storm.
I tell myself it’s nerves. That’s all.
Addison leans in, bumping her shoulder lightly against mine. “Relax. Worst-case scenario, we get delayed. Best case, we meet a very hot photographer who makes the trip more interesting.”
I open my mouth to respond when I feel it.
That subtle, unmistakable shift. The kind that makes your skin prickle before your brain catches up. Footsteps approaching from behind, moving with purpose instead of urgency.
My stomach drops. I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. Some instincts don’t need confirmation, but when I do look up, everything tilts. I know it’s him before my eyes fully register what I’m seeing.
The recognition is physical first—a tightening in my stomach, a strange, disorienting pull, like gravity has shifted direction without warning.
My breath catches, and for a split second, I consider the very mature, very adult option of pretending I didn’t notice and hoping the universe reroutes him somewhere else.
It doesn’t.
He’s walking toward us with the same unhurried confidence he had the night I met him, like crowds are inconveniences rather than obstacles.
The guitar case is gone, replaced by a camera bag slung over one shoulder, but it doesn’t soften him.
If anything, it makes him look more dangerous—civilian camouflage stretched over something that doesn’t belong in public spaces.
My one-night stand. At the airport. Again. I stare, brain stuttering uselessly, while Addison squints past me.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Is that—?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Shut up.”
She does not shut up.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, eyes lighting up with feral delight. “It’s cinnamon.”
I hiss her name, mortified, but it’s too late. He’s close enough now that there’s no pretending. No graceful exit. No alternate reality where this is not happening.
He stops in front of us. Up close, he’s exactly as I remember—tall, broad, all quiet edges and contained tension.
His hair is tied back again, his beard neatly trimmed but still wild.
He looks uninterested and bored, like seeing me again has no effect on him at all, which stings more than it should.
“Addison Avery Sinclair,” she introduces brightly, stepping forward and extending a hand. “You must be our photographer.”
He hesitates for the briefest moment before taking it. His grip is firm and professional. “James,” he replies. “James Smith.”
I snort. The sound escapes me before I can stop it, sharp and disbelieving.
Smith? How dull.
His eyes flick to mine then, dark and unreadable, giving nothing away. No recognition. No flicker of familiarity. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I imagined the entire night.
“Smith?” I repeat, one brow lifting. “Really?”
Something shifts in his expression—not amusement, exactly, but awareness. Like he clocks the challenge and files it away.
“Yes,” he replies evenly, adjusting the strap of his camera bag. “We should board.”
The tone is clipped and efficient. A dismissal.
Addison, bless her, doesn’t miss a thing. “You don’t look like a Smith,” she says conversationally as we start walking. “No offense.”
He shrugs. “I get that a lot.”
“And last time I saw you,” I add, unable to stop myself, “you had a guitar.”
He glances at me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “I’m a man of many trades.”
I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Of course you are.”
We reach the gate, and the attendant checks his credentials without a second glance. When we board, he moves ahead of us without hesitation. His seat is further away from ours—like it was deliberately picked that way.
Message received.
I sink into my seat, pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with travel anxiety. Addison buckles in beside me, eyes bright with curiosity.
“Well,” she murmurs. “This trip just got very interesting.”
I stare straight ahead, heart thudding as the plane begins to taxi. Interesting is one word for it. Uncomfortable is another.