Chapter Two
Sophie wasn’t sure she’d seen anything grander, anything more wonderful than JFK Airport. She would doubtless feel very differently if she had been there to get on a plane. Since the airport was the first available piece of terra firma after disembarking, it had taken on elements of holy ground. For a split second she considered actually kissing the carpet.
That was the exact moment she realized she’d made a tactical error. Drinking on the plane had helped take the edge off her anxiety. But the thing was, beyond the odd glass of wine, she rarely drank these days. She’d also been concerned she would be sick again, so she hadn’t eaten. Those factors, plus the fact that she hadn’t been prepared for drinking at altitude meant she had somehow managed to step into JFK Airport both still slightly drunk and partially hungover at the same time.
She felt wretched. Her stomach rolled, her head was absolutely splitting and the relentless noise wasn’t helping, either. The lights were too bright. It was all basically too much – including the taste in her mouth, which was horrid.
People flowed around her in a constant torrent as they hustled to get to their luggage and head to customs. She was repeatedly jostled, the smell of various perfumes, colognes and body odour hitting her in waves. She did not want to be sick in two different airports within the same twenty-four hours. All she had to do was make it through customs. Tom was meeting her on the other side and escorting her back to the flat. She could endure until then.
Sophie lurched through the crowd, finding an out-of-the-way spot by the bins to catch her breath. Which was good because that was when her legs decided they’d had quite enough, thank you, and gave up. She didn’t faint so much as wilt . Sophie sat down hard, leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Breathe. She just needed to breathe. In a few moments, she’d get up, head through customs and carry on, but right now she would take a tiny sliver of the day to get her bearings.
‘Pardon me, but are you all right?’ The unwelcome voice was deep and pleasant and any other time Sophie would have enjoyed it. Right now, she wanted it to go away, which she knew was unfair of her. He was just being kind. ‘Only, you look a bit peaky.’
‘Flying,’ she said without opening her eyes, ‘is unnatural.’
Whatever the voice had been expecting, it apparently wasn’t that, because it was silent for a few seconds.
‘Perhaps for humans,’ the voice admitted. ‘The act itself isn’t unnatural. Birds do it. Bees do it.’
‘Even monkeys in the trees do it?’ She couldn’t help but finish the line, smiling a little despite her current state. Her mother had loved that song. Judging by the ensuing silence, the voice hadn’t caught the reference and was now considering whether or not she needed medical attention. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit unwell. I tried to steady my nerves by drinking on the plane, and it either worked too well or not at all. Jury’s still out.’
‘I see.’
The way he said it, she was pretty sure he did see, but was also faintly amused. Not in a mean way. Andrew had often got a bit nasty when he felt she was being silly like this, but whoever the voice was, he was amused with her rather than against her.
She found herself apologizing anyway. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I take it that you’re a bit anxious about flying?’
‘Yes,’ she said, breathing in deeply. ‘Just a bit.’ The voice had nice cologne. Subtle and spicy. She laughed a little. ‘In fact, I’m fairly certain that I’ve cornered that particular market.’
He hummed thoughtfully at her. ‘Hold on a moment.’
She heard him walk away. Despite his words, she wondered if he was going to come back. She would have understood if he’d decided to leg it to the nearest exit. Monkeys in the trees. Damn it all. She breathed slowly, willing her stomach to settle.
To her surprise, she heard footsteps coming over to her a few moments later, then the faint rustle of cloth as he lowered himself down. Something popped, probably his knee.
‘Hold out your hand, please.’
Bemused, Sophie did as he asked. Chilled plastic met her palm. A water bottle. Startled, she opened her eyes and suddenly felt sick all over again, but for a very different reason.
Blue-green eyes. Crooked grin, causing charming crow’s feet. Deep brown hair that was slightly dishevelled after the long flight, going a little grey at the temples. Dark stubble, solid jaw, and a well-tailored suit with no tie.
Oh no. He was handsome .
Sophie was suddenly very aware that she looked like something the cat had refused to drag in because even felines had standards. She sat frozen, holding the bottle of water and staring at him.
Luckily, he’d looked away and was digging through his bag. He plucked out a little disposable pouch, the kind medicines sometimes came in, and showed it to her. ‘I’ve been sick on planes before and it’s awful, so I always carry something. This should help with your stomach and any headache, if you have one.’ He gestured to the water bottle. ‘May I?’
She nodded.
He unscrewed the top with a satisfying snap. Then he tore open the packet and carefully poured the powder into the water. After he was done, he threw away the empty packet and resealed the water bottle, swirling the contents around. ‘Sip it. You’ll feel much better soon.’
She unscrewed the lid again, taking a small sip. Cool water flooded her tongue, along with a hit of artificial citrus and something medicinal. She took a few more careful sips, waiting to see if the liquid would stay put.
The man smiled at her and she swore she felt it in her bones, which was absolutely absurd. Still, she smiled back, though only faintly. His was the kind of smile you responded to, one honestly meant.
His brow furrowed slightly, the corners of his mouth turning down. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘I think so. Thank you.’
He waved it away as if it were nothing, and Sophie would have felt the same way if they’d swapped places. If she’d been the one handing out water and medicine, it would feel like the bare minimum, but the men she’d known until now had a very different definition of those words. He checked his watch. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I have to go. Would you like a hand up?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘I’m going to sit another moment and then be off.’
His frown deepened. ‘Are you sure? I hate to leave you sitting on the floor.’
Sophie cocked her head at him. He meant it. Extraordinary. She took another sip before recapping her water. ‘How about a compromise: you help me up, then I’ll lean against this wall until I feel ready to move on.’
He hesitated.
‘I promise you won’t read headlines like, “Woman keeled over in airport – police looking for heartless man who left her splayed on the floor”.’
His lips twitched as he checked his watch again. He sighed and held out his hand. ‘I will have your word, madam, that there will be no such headline.’
‘Did you just “madam” me?’
He winced. ‘It sounded better in my head.’
‘I bet it did.’ She took his hand, his warm palm sliding against hers. She shivered.
He frowned at her some more. He was good at that, too. A sexy frowner. She bet he gave good glower, as well. Perfect. She was cracking up at JFK Airport.
‘Maybe I should walk with you.’
She waved him off as she leaned against the wall. ‘No, no. You have somewhere to be. I promise I’m okay.’ She waved a hand at her legs. ‘See? Nary a wobble. I’m wobble-less.’
He glanced down towards the baggage claim sign, frowning, before checking his watch again. When he returned his attention to her, his face relaxed as he shook his head. ‘I can’t do it, I’m afraid. You’re stuck with me until customs at the very least.’ He splayed a hand over his heart. ‘Think of my reputation. If those headlines get out, I’ll be ruined.’
Sophie took another long sip of her water. Deciding she felt slightly less wobbly, she straightened up. ‘Suit yourself.’
They moved together down the corridor, the man keeping pace with her, watching to see if she was okay. She was reminded of the time she’d taught her son how to ride his bicycle. The first time he’d pedalled on his own, when she’d let go and run beside him, hovering in case he needed help. A sweet sort of vigilance. When she paused to sip her water, he paused with her, making sure she wasn’t jostled by the flow of passengers. She had the oddest sensation of them being in their own bubble, a sense of connection that had snapped into place despite the fact that they were strangers.
He’d also not glanced at his watch even once.
‘You really don’t have to stay with me,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m feeling much better.’
The corner of his mouth hitched up. ‘Nice try. Every time you take a sip, I can see that your hand is still shaking.’
She hadn’t even noticed. ‘I don’t want to keep you from whatever you’re rushing off to do. Unless it’s something dreadful like a meeting.’
‘It’s something dreadful like a meeting,’ he confirmed, guiding her around a family that had stopped in the middle of the walkway to comfort their child.
‘Will you get into trouble?’
He shook his head. ‘Travel delays happen. I don’t need to be specific about it.’
They got to the luggage carousel, immediately plunging into the chaos. There was so much bustle in an airport, so much noise and confusion. People trying to rush off to the next step of their travels dodging around people who looked as dazed and exhausted as she felt.
The man grimaced as he leaned this way and that, trying to catch sight of the luggage as it slowly rotated around the belt. ‘I’m convinced that any modernization of Dante’s Inferno would take place in an airport.’
Sophie blinked up at him. ‘I don’t follow.’
He waved a hand at the crowd. ‘Tell me you wouldn’t picture this as limbo?’
‘Only limbo?’ Sophie asked. “Not something worse?”
‘It’s only baggage claim,’ he said. ‘Wait until you hit customs. That’s pure seventh circle.’
Sophie tried to remember what the seventh circle was, but her tired brain refused to cooperate. ‘Which one’s the seventh?’
‘Violence,’ he said grimly, though she could see a glimmer of laughter in his eyes. ‘Which is generally how I feel while I’m waiting in line for the customs agent.’ Hold on, I think I see mine.’ He darted forward, weaving through the crowd before she could respond.
Sophie finished off her water, wandering over to the side to look for a bin, when she spied her own luggage twirling by. She dodged around several people, muttering apologies despite the fact that they were the ones making it difficult, and grabbed her suitcase handle. The black case looked much like several others around it, but she’d spotted her luggage tag printed with the swoops and swirls of Van Gogh’s Starry Night . She righted her bag, draping her carry-on and cardigan over the top.
She turned and almost bumped right into the helpful man, and realized she hadn’t even asked his name yet. She opened her mouth to say something, only to be jostled suddenly by a man chasing after his toddler. He shouted an apology but didn’t look back as Sophie wobbled.
The helpful man’s hand shot out, catching her elbow and righting her quickly. ‘Got your luggage? Excellent. Let’s get out of here before we’re trampled.’
He carved a path for her as they weaved their way out of the crush. Sophie, who had been plodding along, focusing on his suit jacket and paying very little attention to anything else, was brought up short when she realized they’d moved on to customs and immigration.
The man turned back to her, a questioning expression on his face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘My son warned me, I just—’ She let out a breath. ‘They’re armed. ’
The man followed her gaze towards the police standing off to the side. He didn’t look pleased, but he also didn’t seem surprised. ‘First time in New York?’
She nodded.
For a second Sophie thought he might reach out and squeeze her hand or hug her, but instead he cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. ‘There are many ways that New York will remind you of London. This . . . isn’t one of them.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, though the wobble in her voice belied her words. ‘Just a shock.’
He assessed her for a moment, then obviously decided to let it drop. She started to follow him again, only to realize that he was heading for a sign that said ‘Global Entry’. Which Sophie didn’t have.
She looked forlornly over at the regular queue. Seeing her stop again, the man turned and, without speaking, seemed to understand the situation.
‘You didn’t sign up for anything?’ he asked.
Sophie shook her head. ‘Not exactly a frequent flyer.’
He pursed his lips as he examined the queue she was supposed to join. Sophie laughed, holding up her hands. ‘Oh, no. You’re not going with me. I’ve delayed you enough.’
He hesitated, frowning. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘I am.’ She held out her hand, palm down. ‘See? Steady as a rock.’
‘Okay,’ he said, though he seemed like he wanted to argue. ‘Promise me I won’t see headlines?’
‘Promise.’ She turned her hand, ready to shake on it.
He shook her hand automatically, then seemed momentarily startled by the contact, like he hadn’t expected her to touch him at all. Then he smiled, and she was once again walloped by how handsome he was. ‘It was a pleasure. Except for the part where you didn’t feel well.’
She continued to shake his hand, slightly dazed. ‘Same.’ They smiled at each other for a second more before he reluctantly stepped back, adjusted his suit jacket and his bag, then turned to walk away. Sophie watched him go. He had nice shoulders and long legs and she really didn’t want to get into the queue for immigration.
Ah, well. It was neither the time nor the place. She was tempted to shout after him – not that she had anything to say, she just wanted to see that smile again. But what would she shout? Welcome to New York? Nice arse? Surely she could do better than that. She was a writer. She considered words to be her friends, but as she watched him get smaller and smaller, she felt betrayed. Sophie felt like an artist in front of a blank canvas without any paints.
It wasn’t until he was totally out of sight that she realized she could have said, ‘Thank you.’ Or even just asked his name . She covered her face with her hand.
Sometimes, Sophie, you are a complete and utter pillock.
At least she was starting to feel better. She grabbed her luggage handle and made her way to the back of the queue.
By the time she’d made it through the gauntlet that was the JFK customs and immigration system, she was dead on her feet. The only thing that made her feel better was seeing her son Tom waiting for her. When he caught sight of her, he brightened, smiling wide. ‘There you are! I was about to send the hounds after you.’ He enveloped her in a warm hug. ‘Wow, Mum, you smell like gin.’ His grin was highly amused. ‘Have a good flight, then?’
She groaned. ‘For the rest of the day I don’t want to hear anything about planes or gin. I want a shower, a nap and something to eat, not in that order.’ Now that the medicine had worked its magic, she was feeling much better.
He gave her a squeeze before taking her bags from her. ‘Come on, then. Marisa is waiting for us and the shower is calling your name.’
‘You’re an angel. Have I ever told you that?’
‘No,’ he said with a laugh. ‘It was usually the other way around.’ He threw his free arm around her and gave her another long squeeze. ‘I’m really glad you came, Mum.’
‘Me too, darling. Me too.’
‘What do you mean you didn’t get her name?’ Rahul’s incredulous voice drifted from the phone. Mike had texted his children as instructed as soon as he got to the furnished Manhattan flat his office had found close to the work site. He was exhausted down to his marrow and wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the bed. Instead, he’d accept Rahul’s video call.
He’d mistakenly thought his son might distract him from the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman from the airport. Her good humour. The way her hand had felt almost familiar in his own. Or the fact that he had, somehow, forgotten to get even her name. Instead, talking to his son was only making it worse.
‘I’m not normally the type of person who chats up ill women,’ he said dryly as he set the phone on the dresser, propping it against a decorative vase so that Rahul could still see him as he unpacked. His son was in the middle of making breakfast, the knife flashing as he sliced fruit on the chopping board. Mike wished for a second that he wasn’t in New York at all, but back in London, sitting in the same room as his son instead of watching him through a screen.
‘I’m not saying you had to go full, “Hey, what’s your star sign?” but exchanging names – hell, exchanging numbers – wouldn’t have been weird. Especially since you were worried about her.’
Mike snorted and hoisted his suitcase up onto the bed. The luggage tag smacked against the hard plastic shell as it landed. ‘ “Hey, what’s your star sign?” When did you turn into your grandfather?’
‘Hey, Granddad had game, and you’re dodging the discussion.’
Mike sighed, running a hand through his hair. ‘I honestly didn’t think of it. I’m going to be busy with work while I’m here anyway, so it’s not like anything could come of it.’ It was just . . . her sitting there, unhappy and rumpled and speaking nonsense. She’d been oddly . . . cute. He’d liked talking to her, even it hadn’t been for long, and he’d been reluctant to go. He should have stayed with her through customs. He could have said to hell with his schedule and made sure she was actually well, at the very least.
‘You don’t have to marry the woman, Dad, but I know you. You’re going to work the entire time you’re in New York. You’ll either skip meals or keep working through them. You deserve more than that. If you’d got her number, you could have met up with her and had lunch or something. One fun thing, Dad. I’d like you to do one fun thing while you’re there.’
‘You’re a bully, you know that? I have no idea where you get it from.’
Rahul’s voice quietened. ‘From Mum, that’s who. If she was here, she’d be chewing your ear off, Dad. She wouldn’t like you working yourself to death.’
He couldn’t argue with his son – Rahul was right. ‘One fun thing?’
‘Just one. That’s all I ask,’ Rahul said soothingly as he slid the sliced fruit into a bowl.
‘Okay,’ he said, unzipping his suitcase. ‘I can do that. I promise.’ He flipped open the case and stopped. That wasn’t his jumper, and he was certain he didn’t own a make-up bag. There was something decidedly lacy to the side. Without thinking, he picked it up, letting the silky cloth unfurl.
‘Good,’ Rahul said. ‘That’s all I—’ Abruptly, he stopped speaking.
Mike looked at the screen.
Rahul was frozen, knife still in hand. ‘Dad, whose pants are those?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Mike said honestly.
Rahul snorted a laugh. ‘Well, I can admit when I’m wrong. You clearly live a more exciting life than I thought.’
‘I really don’t,’ Mike said, staring at the silky green underwear.
‘I don’t judge, Dad. As long as you’re happy, you wear whatever kind of pants you want.’
‘Oh, shut it.’
‘What else is in there?’
Mike scowled at him. ‘I’m not going to go digging through someone’s private things.’
Rahul shrugged. ‘How else are you going to find out who it belongs to?’
‘It’s an invasion of privacy,’ Mike grumbled, but he was looking at what was on top, to see if there were other clues. It wasn’t as bad, was it, if he wasn’t digging through everything? There were a few plastic objects, one an odd shape and he couldn’t help but pick it up and examine it.
‘That’s to hold your phone,’ Rahul said, fruit and knife forgotten as he peered at the screen. ‘You know, for hands-free stuff, like what you could use instead of propping your phone against things.’
‘My way works,’ Mike said, as he peered into another plastic container next to it. It was round, like a compact. Medicine, perhaps? It might have a name on it. He popped it open and froze.
Rahul perked up. ‘You found something. What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ Mike said, snapping the case shut and putting it back. ‘None of your business.’
Rahul leaned closer. ‘It’s a vibrator, isn’t it?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘That means yes.’ Rahul grinned. ‘I’m beginning to like this person. Fancy knickers, hands-free phone-holder, vibrator – maybe you should have asked for their number.’ He tilted his head. ‘Does it look like a professional set-up? Maybe they’ve got an OnlyFans.’
‘Maybe you should stop talking.’ Mike put a palm over his face. ‘We’re terrible people.’
Rahul snickered, setting down his knife and wiping his hand on the tea towel thrown over his shoulder. ‘How did you mix up bags? I thought you marked yours.’
‘I did. I have a luggage tag – the one we got from the Van Gogh exhibition. I saw it, grabbed the bag and left. I was in a bit of a hurry to make up lost time,’ he said absently.
‘Well, I’d take the time to flip that tag now,’ Rahul offered mock helpfully.
Why hadn’t he thought of the tag before? He was a reasonably intelligent individual. Because you saw green, silky knickers and lost your mind, old man. Mike huffed. ‘I don’t like how much you’re enjoying this.’
‘I’m a stay-at-home dad at the moment. I take my laughs where I can.’
Mike flipped over the luggage tag. Where he had expected to find his name, he instead found the name Sophie Swann in a slanting script. ‘It’s the exact same brand as my luggage. Exact same tag. What are the odds?’
He’d meant them as rhetorical questions, but his son answered him anyway. ‘You have good taste in luggage, and half of London probably went to that exhibition. I’d say the odds were fairly good.’
Mike put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘I’m going to have to phone this poor woman and tell her I saw her pants.’
‘I’d leave out that last bit if I were you.’ Rahul resumed his food prep. ‘Women get a little weird for some reason when a stranger starts talking about their unmentionables.’