Chapter 2 #3
“Perhaps,” she admits with a slight smile. “Though anyone who joins the military despite aristocratic expectations might know something about rebellion themselves.”
“Touché,” I concede. “Though in my defense, it’s less rebellion and more… alternative tradition. Military service has its own kind of rigid structure.”
“So you traded one set of rules for another?” she asks, suddenly more perceptive than I’m comfortable with.
I deflect with humor, not ready to admit it wasn’t a choice. “At least these come with cool equipment and the occasional explosion.”
She laughs again, accepting my evasion. “Boys and their toys. Some things never change.”
“Speaking of which,” I nod toward her laptop, “what exactly are you working on so diligently? State secrets? The next great novel? Scathing review of airline food?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she replies with mock seriousness. “And that would make the rest of this flight terribly awkward.”
“I’ve survived worse threats from prettier faces,” I tease.
“Prettier than mine?” she challenges, eyebrow raised.
I pretend to consider this carefully. “Well, there was this one terrorist in Baghdad who had the most extraordinary eyelashes…”
She swats my arm, laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told. Frequently. Usually by commanding officers and occasionally by the Queen.”
“You’ve met the Queen?” she asks, seeming genuinely curious.
“A gentleman never tells,” I reply mysteriously. “Though I will say she has strong opinions about proper tea preparation.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” she says, though her smile suggests she’s enjoying our game.
“About the Queen or the tea?”
“Both. Neither. I haven’t decided yet,” she admits. “You’re a difficult man to read.”
“Part of my charm,” I say with a confidence I don’t entirely feel. This woman sees more than I’m comfortable revealing, yet somehow I keep talking. “What about you? Easy to read or carefully curated mystery?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she replies, taking another sip of her wine.
“I would, actually,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. “Very much so.”
Something shifts in her expression—a moment of vulnerability quickly masked by playfulness. “Well, you have approximately twenty more hours to figure me out. Better use your time wisely.”
“Challenge accepted.” I settle back into my seat with a smile. “Though I should warn you, I’m very persistent.”
“And I’m very complicated,” she counters. “But I suppose that makes us even.”
“Even isn’t what I’m aiming for,” I reply, holding her gaze until she looks away first.
The flight attendant interrupts our verbal dance, offering dinner options.
As Isabel discusses her meal preference, I find myself studying her profile, wondering how a chance airplane encounter has become the most interesting part of my month.
There’s something about her—something beyond the obvious beauty and quick wit—that feels important somehow.
When she turns back to me, catching me watching her, she doesn’t comment on it, just smiles knowingly. And that’s when I realize I might be in more trouble than I initially thought.
* * *
The flight attendants clear away our dinner trays, and I find myself surprisingly disappointed that our conversation might end.
Dinner had been unexpectedly pleasant—Isabel proving to be as engaging discussing world affairs as she was trading barbs about our privileged upbringings.
But as the cabin lights dim and the movie begins playing on the screens, a comfortable silence settles between us.
“I think I’ll try to get some sleep.” She stifles a yawn. “Don’t take this personally, but talking about fathers and expectations has thoroughly exhausted me.”
“Understood,” I reply with a smile. “Daddy issues are remarkably effective sedatives.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “Goodnight, Nate.”
“Sleep well, Isabel.”
I lean my seat back slightly and close my eyes, not really expecting sleep to come.
It rarely does easily, especially in public spaces where vulnerability feels dangerous.
But the day’s travel, the wine with dinner, and perhaps even the unexpected ease of conversation with Isabel eventually pulls me under.
I’m not sure how long I drift, but I wake to the sensation of movement beside me.
Through barely-opened eyes, I see Isabel standing, carefully draping the thin airline blanket over me.
I remain perfectly still, my military training making it easy to control my breathing.
The truth is I woke from my nap the moment she stood up, but something stops me from letting her know I’m awake.
I just don’t want to embarrass her just yet, though seeing her blush makes her even sexier.
So I pretend to sleep, curious about this unprompted gesture of consideration.
It’s a nice gesture on Isabel’s part though, and unexpected for sure. Not the kind of thing strangers typically do for each other on flights. As she settles back into her seat, I keep my eyes closed, her name echoing in my mind. Isabel. I love her name. I’ve always liked it.
Somehow Izzy pops in my head. Her parents and mine are still best friends.
We’ve been glued together since she could waddle after me through the garden in her diaper.
But I’m pretty sure there’s a photo somewhere—me, grinning like a goof; her, a squishy little newborn in my arms. Maybe that was the start of it all.
She was my best friend, my partner in crime who helped drive nanny Alice to distraction with our antics.
We built forts in the library, stole desserts from the kitchen before dinner, and made-up elaborate stories about the stern ancestors in the portraits.
After her mother died when she was eight, everything changed.
The light went out of her eyes for a long time.
Her father buried himself in work, no more Friday dinners at mine and soon she left England altogether.
And since then, my life has been turned upside down.
Little Izzy completed my days, making them unique and fun.
But once she left, it was like Dad finally had his chance to mold me into his perfect heir.
As if he didn’t really care about me as a person but, instead, cared about what people might think or see when they looked at the future Duke.
It was the period that most marked me. I learned what it really meant to be alone, and I vowed to myself to find my soul mate one day and finally be happy.
Unfortunately, the years have passed, military deployments and family obligations filling my life, and I’m still looking for her—that elusive person who might see me as Nate, not as a title or a uniform or an heir.
But little Izzy will always have a special place in my heart.
When I’ll be home I have to ask Alice if she has any news from Izzy.
Last time I snuck into the office to look her up—using military intelligence resources for personal reasons could land me in serious trouble—I could only find that she went to Switzerland to a prestigious boarding school and a few years later moved to Japan.
No socials and found no pictures either.
I had to end my research quickly since if someone had caught me, I’d have faced serious consequences.
It would be nice to see her again, though.
We were just kids, but the kindness and love I saw in her eyes still make me remember her today.
Izzy and nanny Alice were the only people who ever made me feel loved.
The only ones who made me feel appreciated and not like I was just a puppet, an heir born to do great things.
Who knows what she’s doing now? Who knows if she still remembers me or if I’m just a faded childhood memory?
I open my eyes when the plane goes through a little turbulence, the slight rocking jolting me from my reminiscence.
I still can’t sleep for long during flights—too many years of operational awareness have made deep sleep-in vulnerable situations nearly impossible.
I envy those who manage to sleep soundly no matter what happens around them.
In the dimmed cabin, I realize Isabel has rested her head on my shoulder, her breathing deep and even.
Her face in sleep looks younger, the professional composure replaced by peaceful vulnerability.
I know when she wakes up, her neck will hurt in that position.
Almost without thinking, I shift in my seat, raise the armrest between us, and gently guide her to lean against my chest instead.
As soon as she places her hand on my torso, my heart starts racing madly, and I circle her with my arms in a protective gesture that surprises even me.
Breathing in her floral perfume, I close my eyes feeling a sense of peace rushing through me, and for once I embrace it instead of questioning or resisting.
When Isabel realizes she has slept in my arms, I’m sure she’ll blame me for taking liberties or crossing boundaries.
But somehow, it makes me smile because the more she fights me, the more I like it.
Her fiery independence and quick wit are refreshing after years of people either following my orders without question or deferring to my title with calculated obsequiousness.
As the plane continues its journey through the darkness, I find myself hoping the flight might last just a little longer than scheduled. For now, in this moment suspended between continents and responsibilities, I’m simply a man holding a beautiful woman, and that feels like more than enough.