The Sun Will Rise (Love At First Flight #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Ruth

Katy Keller’s car smells like oranges.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve ever been in her car.

We’ve been best friends for more than half of our lives, and she’s worn that same sweet citrus perfume for as long as I’ve known her—longer, probably.

But it’s a comforting contrast to the smell of exhaust fumes and petroleum that permeated the air when we stopped for petrol.

Now back in her seat next to me, Katy snaps her head round to look at me before pulling away from the pump.

Her blonde ponytail flips from one bare shoulder to the other.

She’s wearing one of her favoured oversized, off-the-shoulder things that used to absolutely baffle me.

Why on earth would you only want one shoulder covered?

Why wouldn’t you cover neither, or both?

And then Paloma, the resident redhead in our four-woman group of ride-or-die besties for life, convinced me to buy one.

I loved the easy slouch and the effortless comfort.

“Gonna do anything exciting in the Big Apple?”

“Am I fuck,” I answer dryly. “I’m going to land, go to the office, go to bed, go back to the office, go to the airport and fly straight home.”

“God, your job is fucking boring.”

“Isn’t it fucking just.”

Katy pulls back onto the main road, rolling her shoulders back and forth as she grips the steering wheel.

“The least you could do is go and get some of that famous New York pizza.”

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, K,” I say sadly. I tried it the first time I visited the city, and it was perhaps one of the greatest disappointments of my life. I’ll stick with the Italian-wannabe stuff we have in England.

“Really? That’s shit. At least in Mexico the tacos are just as good as they’re supposed to be.”

“That’s because tacos are actually Mexican.” I turn to face her profile. “Pizza isn’t from New York. New York just wishes it was.”

Katy chuckles in response, focusing her attention on the road ahead.

“You still need to tell me all about it, anyway,” I continue. “I haven’t seen you since before I went to Austin, and then you and Amie were living it up in Mexico.”

“It was amazing,” she gushes, a grin lifting the corners of her mouth. “The food—oh my god, Roo— the food is insane out there. I wish you and Lo could’ve come with us.”

“Next time,” I say quietly. I doubt it’ll happen. I fly regularly for work and I hate every single second of it. I can’t imagine myself willingly getting on a twelve-hour flight just for fun—tacos or no tacos.

“Next time,” Katy agrees. “Anyway, what’s with all the travel lately? You never fly this much. You’re turning into Amie.”

The fourth member of our group, Amie, works as cabin crew and Katy joined her recently on a long layover to Mexico.

They sent a few photos in our group chat, but I’ve been so busy—and so jet lagged with my own back-and-forth flights—that I haven’t seen either of them lately.

I haven’t seen much of Paloma, either, and she’s been in London the whole time.

I haven’t really seen much of anyone lately.

“Fucking tell me about it,” I grumble. “I hate flying.”

Katy says nothing, instead flicking her eyes from the road signs outside to the navigation screen inside the car and back again.

“The jet lag is the worst,” she says after easing to a stop at a red light. “I don’t know how Amie does it.”

“Still feeling Mexico, huh?”

“It was amazing, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but fuck me, Roo. I’m shattered.”

We lapse into silence again for a moment.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I swear. Katy glances to the side, ponytail swishing lightly, then flicks the stalk to signal a lane change before turning the wheel and steering the car to the left.

“What’s up, Roo? Tell me you didn’t forget your passport?”

“No,” I say with a scoff. “I didn’t grab a jacket and it’s gonna be cold. New York is always cold.”

“There’s one on the back seat,” she says, her eyes never leaving the road. “The blazer thingy. You can take that but for the love of God, Roo, please bring it back with you.” Katy still hasn’t forgiven me for borrowing a hoodie and leaving it in a hotel room when we were teenagers.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I twist in my seat to grab the soft cotton jacket hanging off the back seat of Katy’s car.

I hug it to my chest, inhaling Katy’s fruity perfume clinging to the material.

It’s comforting, and I can’t help but think I might wear it during the flight, too.

I know it’ll be big on me. Katy’s short and slim, but where she’s been blessed by the boob Gods, I’m mostly flat-chested and almost entirely without curves. “I promise I’ll bring it home safe.”

Katy smirks, one eyebrow raised, and she pulls into the drop-off zone outside the terminal. With a sigh, I throw open the door and heft myself out, dragging my feet as I round the car to retrieve my suitcase. Katy joins me on the curb.

“You’ll be fine, Roo.” She squeezes my shoulders before pulling me into a long hug. “Promise. I’ll be here in a few days to pick you up.”

And then she’s gone, the lights on her car blinking as she merges into traffic and drives away, leaving me to face the music. But first, I have to get through airport security.

One ‘randomly’ searched bag and two coffees later, I step onto the aircraft to find Amie at the boarding door, hazel eyes twinkling as she greets an endless stream of passengers and directs them to their seats.

“Excuse me, Sweet Thing,” I say, throwing my arms around her neck. “Weren’t you supposed to be on your way to Dubai today?”

“I swapped,” she laughs. “Stuck with me today, I’m afraid.”

“What a shame,” I tease. I’m glad. I’m grateful, even.

Despite how frequently I fly between home in London and our offices in New York and Austin, I’m not a great flier, and having Amie on the plane with me is always a comfort.

She checks my boarding card and points me across the narrow galley to turn left—into business class, of course, because I’m a bougie business traveller.

It’s a perk of the job, and one I’m planning to take full advantage of with a glass or two of champagne and a lay-flat seat all the way from London to New York.

I settle into my suite with not just a glass of champagne, but orange juice too for a full mimosa experience, and after we take off, I pull the suite’s privacy door closed and pull my laptop from its plush purple sleeve.

After ten minutes of catching up on asinine emails from company executives, I slam it closed, lower my seat into a bed position, and close my eyes.

Fuck, I need a drink. My two days in New York City have been spent not doing my actual job but cleaning up the absolute clusterfuck of a mess my company’s CEO has made.

We’re about to be sued for unfair dismissal, libel, three different counts of copyright theft, and about a hundred other things.

The worst part of it is, every single suit filed against us is legitimate.

I warned the company directors that this would happen, but they refused to listen, and now we all have to lie in this shitty bed they’ve made.

Again. Sometimes, I wonder how this company still runs, let alone how it remains on the Fortune 500 list.

But what do I know? I’m just the international IP specialist.

The bartender slides a margarita towards me, along with an extra tequila shot.

I forego the supplied salt and lime and down the shot neat, savouring the way it burns all the way down my throat and chest, into my belly.

I’m just bringing the margarita to my lips when the empty barstool beside me fills with an imposing figure.

“Whiskey, please. Whatever you’ve got. Double—hell, make it a triple.”

I glance to the side, surreptitiously checking out the man with the smoothest, richest voice I’ve ever heard.

His face is shielded by the brim of his cowboy hat, until he plucks it from his head and places it down on the bar.

His eyes remain downcast, but his profile is stunning in silhouette.

Strong jaw, long eyelashes, dark hair that curls just slightly at the tips of his ears. My heart stutters. He’s beautiful.

And he’s looking up at me.

Fuck.

I swallow half of my drink in one mouthful.

“You look like you’ve had a day, too,” he says, a wry chuckle lifting his lips in a half smile. The barest hint of a dimple pops on his cheek. Jesus Christ, I need another drink.

“You want another?” he asks, nodding his head in the direction of my drink. It’s almost empty already, but my mouth is so dry. It’s funny, because my underwear is getting wetter by the second under this stranger’s gaze.

What the hell.

“I’d love one,” I say, and he waves down the bartender again.

“Another for the lady,” he requests, and I offer a smile. At least, I hope it’s a smile and not a grimace. After the last two days, I can’t really tell anymore.

The bartender slides both of our drinks across the bar and we raise them together before sipping.

“Everett,” he says, swallowing a mouthful of something rich and amber. “People call me Ev.” He holds out a hand and I take it. It’s warm and calloused. He shakes mine in a firm grip with a gentle squeeze.

“Ruth,” I respond. “People call me… Ruth.” Why is my voice doing that weird thing? It’s high-pitched but husky, like a weird, intentional phone-sex voice. It’s not me, but I don’t know how to stop it. But he laughs then, and god, that sound could melt the polar ice caps.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ruth.” He tips his glass towards me as he lifts it to his lips. “What brings a beautiful lady like you to an airport lounge like this, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“What brings anyone here?” I attempt a chuckle to go along with my terrible joke. “Waiting for a plane.”

He laughs, low and rumbly. His accent is doing all kinds of things to the butterflies flapping up a storm in my belly.

I can’t place it beyond ‘southern’, but he has that slow cowboy drawl from the movies and deep, heavy-lidded eyes, and the way he’s looking me up and down…

good god, it’s like he’s on death row and I’m his last meal.

What the fuck, Ruth? He’s a complete stranger. Surely you can’t be that desperate.

Except, I am that desperate. I haven’t had sex for months. I haven’t had good sex in—well, maybe ever. I’ve been on countless dates, all from awful dating apps, and they’ve all ended in disaster, and it’s just left me thinking that maybe… it’s me. Hi, I’m the problem. Clearly.

Would sex with a virtual stranger really be so bad?

It worked for Amie when she met Cam. I mean, she also got an unexpected kid out of the deal, and now they’re managing demanding jobs, parenthood, and a long-distance relationship, but once upon a time, they were just strangers who boned, and now they’re madly in love.

I look at my watch to avoid staring at Everett.

I still have twenty minutes before my gate is even announced, and my drink is still half-full, so I have plenty of time.

Everett, on the other hand, glances up at the muted TV screen, date and time displayed in the lower left corner, and slips off his barstool.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Ruth,” he says, leaning in as he replaces his hat on his head. He smells warm and earthy, like dirt and leather and something musky mixed with the whiskey on his breath. “Hope I’ll bump into you again soon.”

And then he walks out. Sorry, swaggers. He fucking swaggers, tight denim hugging thick thighs and blousing over round-toed boots. Fuck, somebody slap me. I need a cold shower. And maybe another tequila shot.