3. Nyree
Nyree
I ’m standing in the bustling airport terminal. The faint hum of conversation and overhead announcements blend into a kind of white noise that presses on my skull. My shoes make a soft clicking sound against the polished floors as I pace back and forth, trying to steady my breathing.
Each step feels too loud, like my anxiety is announcing itself to the world, but I can’t stand still. I try to focus on anything else, the smell of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby cafe, the bright signs pointing to different terminals, the steady stream of people, each with their own destination.
But my mind keeps circling back to one thing: Coco isn’t here yet.
I pull out my phone for what feels like the hundredth time, tapping the screen and checking for any updates. Nothing. I’m early, of course, but even that minor fact doesn’t do much to calm the rising tide of panic within me. She was supposed to arrive only thirty minutes after me.
I keep repeating that to myself like a mantra. Just thirty minutes . But the minutes are stretching into hours now, and my nerves are fraying at the edges. My OCD, something I have lived with for so long, gets nasty when things don’t happen at the exact time they should. And each second of Coco not being here is exacerbating it.
My neck itches. It always does when I’m anxious, or when things don’t go according to plan. I reach up and rub at the spot just below my ear, trying to soothe the discomfort, but it only seems to make it worse. I force my hand back down to my side and focus on breathing, slow and steady, in and out.
It doesn’t help.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I glance down and see Coco’s name flash across the screen. Relief floods through me as I answer the call.
“Hey!” I say, trying to keep my voice casual, like I’m not already on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack.
“Nyree! Just wanted to give you a head-up,” Coco’s voice crackles slightly over the connection, but it’s still the same comforting tone I’ve grown used to over the years. “My flight’s delayed. Apparently, the weather isn’t looking too good.”
I glance outside through the massive glass windows of the terminal. The sky is an oppressive shade of gray, thick with heavy clouds that seem to sink lower by the minute. Snow is already falling, swirling in delicate, haphazard patterns as the wind picks up. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
“Oh,” I manage to say, my voice coming out tighter than I intended. “Okay. Um… what should I do?”
There’s a pause on the other end, just long enough to make me think she’s weighing her options. I hate this. Hate not having a coherent plan, hate that my carefully timed schedule is unraveling before my eyes. My heart races a little faster, my hands gripping the phone tighter.
“Don’t worry,” Coco says, her tone firm but reassuring. “My dad’s already there. He’ll pick you up.”
Her dad? Mr. Davenport?
I blink, momentarily thrown off by the mention of him. I’ve heard about him, of course. How could I not? Coco talks about him all the time. He’s larger-than-life in the stories she tells. This powerful, successful businessman who somehow manages to also be the most devoted father who always keeps a watchful eye over her. But I’ve never actually met him. The idea of meeting him now, under these circumstances, in the middle of an impending snowstorm, sends a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me.
“He’ll be there soon. He’ll come in a black Jeep,” Coco continues, oblivious to the growing panic swirling in my chest. “Just wait by the entrance of the departure terminal. He’ll find you.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Okay,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to feel about this. My neck is already itching again, the muscles in my throat tightening like a coil.
The call ends, and I slip my phone back into my pocket. I stand there for a moment, staring at the entrance of the terminal as people rush in and out, bundled in thick coats and scarves, to shield themselves from the cold. The snow outside was falling faster now, thick and coating the ground in a pristine white blanket.
It’s beautiful, in a way. If I weren’t so on edge, I might have been able to appreciate it. But right now, all I can think about is how long I’ll be waiting here; how awkward it’ll be when Mr. Davenport shows up, and how much I wish Coco was here instead.
I step closer to the glass doors, trying to keep my thoughts in check. My eyes flick toward the street, searching for any sign of a black SUV. The minutes seem to crawl by, each one slower than the last. My hands are shoved deep in my pockets, but it does little to ward off the chill that’s creeping into my bones. My breath slips out in quick, shallow bursts, clouding the glass in front of me. I blink, startled—when did I stop breathing? My fingers clutch into a fist so hard they ache, and I loosen my grip only to realize I’ve been holding it all along, as if the slightest release might shatter everything.
I’m waiting and tense, on the edge of something I can’t quite define.
Then, through the swirling snow, I see it: a sleek, black Jeep, a Grand Cherokee, gliding up to the curb. My pulse quickens as the vehicle comes to a stop, the engine still humming quietly under the hood. The driver’s side door swings open, and out steps a tall figure, bundled in a heavy coat with a hood pulled low over his face. The placard in his hand catches the wind, the paper flapping slightly, and I catch a glimpse of my name, apparently scribbled hastily but unmistakable.
My feet move before my brain can fully process what’s happening. I push through the double doors, the sudden blast of cold air hitting me like a slap to the face. The wind whips my hair into my eyes as I hurry toward him, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Hi! Mr. Davenport?!” I call out, my voice barely carrying over the roar of the wind.
He turns, his face still mostly hidden by the hood of his coat. “Nyree?” he says, his voice low and steady. It’s the voice that commands attention with no need to raise it.
I nod quickly, clutching my bag tighter as I approach. He moves efficiently, not wasting a second as he tosses my luggage into the back of the Jeep. His movements are smooth, practiced, like this is something he does often and is used to taking charge in situations like this.
“Get in,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument as he swiftly yanks open the passenger door.
I am sliding into the seat. The warmth of the car is immediate, wrapping around me like a blanket. I exhale slowly, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders ease, though not entirely. Mr. Davenport climbs in on the driver’s side, pulling his hood down a little. I can’t help but glance over at him, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the strong jawline, and the piercing eyes that seem to take in everything at once. He’s exactly as Coco described, only more imposing in person. There’s a certain gravitas about him, an air of authority that makes me feel small and uncertain in comparison.
He pulls the Jeep away from the curb with the same practiced ease, navigating through the thickening snow with a steady hand. For a while, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic scrape of the windshield wipers as they try to keep up with the storm. My hands fidget in my lap. The silence is crushing and quite uncomfortable.
“So, uh, thank you for picking me up,” I say finally. My voice sounding too loud in the enclosed space.
He glances over at me briefly, a slight look at something. Amusement maybe? It crosses his features before his attention returns to the road. “Of course,” he says simply. “Wouldn’t want to leave you stranded in this.”
I manage a tight smile, though I doubt he notices. The tension I feel hasn’t fully dissipated, and the snow outside is falling harder now, the world beyond the windows turning into a blur of white. My fingers tap nervously against the armrest, my mind racing with thoughts I can’t quite articulate.
“Coco’s flight got delayed because of the weather,” I offer, trying to fill the silence with something, anything.
He nods, his eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah, she called.”
Another pause. I bite my lip, searching for something else to say, but nothing comes to mind. I’m painfully aware of how awkward this all is, how out of place I feel, sitting here beside a man I’ve only heard about in stories, in the middle of a snowstorm that shows no sign of letting up. My neck itches again, and I resist the urge to reach up and scratch at it.
The landscape outside is almost completely obscured now, the snow piling up faster than the plows can keep up with. The Jeep moves steadily through it all, but my heart is still in my throat, each turn of the wheel making me a little more anxious.
“It’s great that Coco didn’t get on her flight before this hit,” Mr. Davenport says suddenly, breaking the silence. “Best if she stays put till this storm clears. This is no weather for flying”
“Yeah,” I agree quickly, grateful for the distraction. “Flying in this storm would’ve been… bad.”
He lets out a short laugh, and I find myself relaxing just a little. There’s something oddly comforting about his presence, even though I don’t know him well. It’s like he has everything under control, like no matter how bad the storm gets, he’ll handle it. I wish I had that kind of confidence.
The drive continues in relative silence after that, though it feels less stifling than before. I stare out the window, watching the snow swirl in chaotic patterns, my mind drifting between thoughts of Coco, the holidays, and the strange feeling of being in this man’s company. It’s not until we’re pulling into the long driveway of what I assume is their vacation house that I realize just how tense I’ve been this whole time.
The house is massive, far bigger than I expected. It has tall windows and a sloping roof that’s already covered in a thick layer of snow. The lights are on inside, casting a warm, inviting glow through the storm. I can feel the anxiety bubbling up again as we park, but I push it down, taking a deep breath as Mr. Davenport turns off the engine.
“Here we are,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.
I nod, following his lead as I step out into the cold once more. The wind is even harsher out here, almost freezing me in place as Mr. Davenport hurriedly grabs my bags from the back of the car. He moves with purpose, leading the way up to the front door with long, confident strides. I struggle to keep up, my feet slipping slightly on the icy path, but I stay upright.
As soon as we’re inside, the warmth of the house hits me like a wave, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The interior is just as impressive as the exterior, with high ceilings, rich wood floors, and a massive stone fireplace that crackles invitingly in the living room. It feels both luxurious and cozy, like a place designed for comfort, but with a touch of opulence that’s impossible to ignore.
“Make yourself at home,” Mr. Davenport says, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a nearby rack.
I follow suit, though my movements are slower, more tentative. My fingers feel clumsy as I fumble with the zipper of my jacket, my mind still reeling from the whirlwind of the last few hours. When I finally free myself from the layers of winter clothing, I stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.
“Thank you for picking me up,” I say again, my voice quieter this time, almost swallowed by the comforting crackle of the fire as I glance back at him.
But the words catch in my throat.
The moment I truly see him, without his heavy coat and the hood that had been casting shadows over his face, it’s as though the room itself shifts. My breath stumbles in my chest.
He is stunning.
His blue eyes, which had seemed so distant before, now gleam with an intensity that almost startles me. They are a shade of blue so pale they’re almost arctic, as if they belong to the deepest winter itself, sharp and piercing. His gaze seems to flick over me with a subtle precision, calculating and composed, as though he’s always assessing and always in control. The coolness in his expression only heightens his allure, making him feel untouchable, unknowable.
Without his coat, I can now fully take in the broad lines of his shoulders, the way the fabric of his shirt clings slightly to his form. He’s in remarkable shape. His physique was apparent, even under the understated simplicity of his clothes. His height becomes even more pronounced as he stands there, looming just slightly over me in a way that makes the space between us feel charged, almost electrified. Every detail, from the clean cut of his jaw to the slight tension in his frame, radiates a quiet, almost dangerous power.
For a moment, I feel myself melt in front of him, my pulse quickening in a way I hadn’t expected. I can’t help it. My eyes flick over his form, betraying my thoughts. There's something magnetic about him, something that draws me in and unsettles me all at once.
Stop staring . My stomach twists with embarrassment. The realization of how blatantly I’ve been gawking hits me hard, and I tear my eyes away, willing myself to regain composure before he notices.
But has he? I wonder. Did he see the way I was looking at him? See the telltale signs of my racing thoughts? I risk a quick glance up again, catching only a flicker of his expression before I turn my attention back to the fire.
If he’s noticed, he doesn’t show it. His demeanor remains steady and unreadable, like the snowstorm swirling just outside these walls, cold, controlled, and utterly untouchable.
I take a breath, trying to still the rapid flutter in my chest. My fingers clench in on themselves to steady the trembling beneath my skin.
Mr. Davenport gives me a nod, his expression unreadable. “You’re welcome,” he says simply, before turning toward the kitchen. “Coco should be here tomorrow, if the weather clears up. In the meantime, I’ll make sure you’re settled in.”
I nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and unease as I watch him disappear into the other room. The house is quiet now. The only sound is the soft crackling of the fire and the faint howling of the wind outside. I’m alone, standing in the middle of this beautiful, unfamiliar space. My thoughts are a tangled mess of nerves, uncertainty, and something else. Something Mr. Davenport is sparking within me.
***