Where We Landed (After the Vows #1)

Chapter One

Brooke’s POV

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

I glance over at Stephanie, our purser, as we begin taxiing down the runway.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly.

She tilts her head, unconvinced. “You’ve been weird since you got back from your break. Something happen with the boyfriend?”

I shake my head. “That ended months ago. I actually went to visit my dad. He’s sick.” I leave out the in-prison part.

She nods slowly. “I can understand that. Parents being ill is the worst.”

I give her a tight smile as the plane lifts into the sky.

The truth is, I didn’t go visit him in prison because my father is dying. I went because I wanted to look him in the eye when I said good riddance.

The man ruined our lives. He left, and then kept coming back, promising to change but always letting us down. Until one day my mom refused to believe him again, and his response was breaking into our house and killing her. For twenty dollars.

Even now, the number makes my stomach turn. Twenty dollars. That’s what her life was worth to him. Twenty bucks and whatever high they could buy.

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing through the knot in my chest, then force myself to straighten my shoulders. That was then. And this is now. I have a job to do. I can’t fall apart thirty thousand feet in the air.

Once we’re airborne and the seatbelt sign dings off, I head to economy while Stephanie takes first class. A few minutes later, she reappears, weaving her way down the aisle to where I’m walking with two other attendants.

“Brooke,” she says, gesturing me toward the curtain between first and economy.

“What’s up?”

She’s sniffling. “Someone in first class is wearing rose perfume and I forgot my antihistamine. Can you handle that section for me?”

“Of course,” I nod.

She squeezes my shoulder gratefully and disappears back toward the galley. I smooth my uniform and make my way to first class.

Halfway up the aisle, a magazine slips from a passenger’s hand and lands at my feet. I stoop to pick it up. “Sir, you dropped-”

And then I see his face.

Matthew.

For a heartbeat, the plane could be empty. His eyes widen, just as shocked. “Brooke.”

I smile despite myself. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He wipes a sheen of sweat from his brow and laughs nervously. “I have a meeting.”

“In Paris?” I ask, turning the overhead fan toward him.

He shrugs. “What can I say?”

I grin. “So are you-”

A service light goes off two rows ahead, pulling me back to reality. “It’s good to see you,” I say, and continue down the aisle before my heart has a chance to catch up with my feet.

I haven’t seen him since the week before graduation. One second, we were talking about nothing, and the next, I got a “Got a job” text and then nothing. I guess I could’ve texted too, but I didn’t want to seem clingy.

So I let our friendship just… fizzle.

All through the first hour of the flight, I serve passengers while stealing glances at Matthew and immediately looking away like some awkward teenager caught staring.

Every time I pass his seat, I swear he’s watching me too.

And when our eyes catch, there’s something there, a flicker of recognition, maybe curiosity, maybe more.

I’m standing by the galley, waiting for the meals to heat up, when the curtain suddenly swishes aside and a giant steps through. I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes.

“Well, look who grew up,” I tease.

He slips his hands into his pockets, grinning. “Late growth spurt, I guess.”

“Guess? You’re a giant. And I’m wearing heels,” I say, shaking my head.

He chuckles, the sound so familiar it sends a pulse of warmth through me. “How long have you been working for Marx United?”

I shrug. “Two years. Got the job right after graduation.”

“I’m happy for you,” he says, and I believe him.

“So,” I say, leaning back against the counter, “where did you disappear to?”

“Uh… I got a position with Marx too. Paris division. But I’m back in New York now.”

My brows knit. “How have we not run into each other yet?”

He shrugs, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Fate.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too.

“So… Paris division?” I ask, folding my arms. “That sounds fancy.”

He smirks. “Well, someone had to keep the baguette industry alive.”

“Right,” I drawl. “And here I thought you were changing the world.”

“Not yet,” he says, leaning just slightly closer. “But you’d be surprised how far a few good marketing campaigns can go.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I shoot back. “Meanwhile, I’m here making sure people don’t press the call button just to ask for another blanket.”

“Hey,” he says, mock serious, “I happen to think that’s a noble calling.”

I laugh. “You would.”

His smile softens. “It’s really good to see you again, Brooke.”

“You too,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You got taller. And… different.”

“Different how?” he asks, eyes narrowing in amusement.

“Just… different.” I glance him up and down, lips twitching.

He grins. “Good different?”

“I don’t think we’ve spent enough time together for me to make that assessment yet.”

“Then let’s,” he says, that grin widening. “Let me show you Paris.”

I smile lightly. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I tease, even as my heart thuds hard in my chest.

He smiles, that crooked, lopsided smile I remember and tilts his head. “Only the ones I want to see again.”

“I’m warning you,” I say, trying to ignore the heat between us. “You’d better not show me all the tourist traps.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Promise.”

“Fine,” I reply, trying to sound casual, even though my pulse is already picking up.

He steps closer, just enough that the heat from his body brushes against mine. My breath hitches. His gaze dips briefly to my mouth before snapping back up to my eyes, and I swear the plane hums louder.

Then, without warning, his hand skims the small of my back, barely there, but enough to make every nerve in my body spark awake. For a second, he just looks at me, searching my face for something unspoken.

And then, just as quickly, he steps back, holding up a bottle of water from the service cart. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than before, and walks away down the aisle.

Once he’s gone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and slump against the counter, my knees suddenly weaker than they should be.

Definitely different.

Matthew

Holy shit.

I have a date with Brooke Masters.

She’s always been the one that got away. Scratch that, she’s the one I let get away, because I was too terrified to ask her out.

I drop back into my seat, grinning like an idiot. If someone had told college-me this would happen, I’d have laughed in their face. Back then, I was a nerd. And not the cool, Clark Kent glasses-and-a-secret-abs kind of nerd. I mean chubby, short, painfully socially awkward nerd.

And can you blame me? Socializing was hard enough before the world shut down and then suddenly, I didn’t have to, at all. Quarantine was like a safety blanket. Online classes were a dream. I didn’t have to make small talk or force myself into conversations.

I was one of the unlucky few who graduated during the COVID era or lucky, depending on how you look at it. At the time, it felt like a blessing.

But by the time my postgrad started, the lockdowns were over. The world had snapped back into motion, and suddenly I was supposed to go from complete isolation to sitting in a crowded lecture hall again. Even with a vaccine coursing through me, I hated every second of it.

So, I did what I always did: sat in the back. Alone.

I had to take a class for credit, and everyone said tourism was the easiest. So I picked that. Easy, sure but boring as hell.

Until one day, she sat beside me.

Brooke Masters. The prettiest girl on campus. The one everyone noticed when she walked into a room, loud laugh, hair that seemed to shine, eyes that made you forget what you were saying. And she was sitting next to me.

Now, I know she didn’t exactly strike up a conversation with me because of my good looks. It was for my notes and before you start feeling bad for me, let me be clear: I used her just as much as she used me.

Technically, what we had was a trade deal disguised as a friendship. I helped her study and keep her grades afloat while she balanced work. And in return, she dragged me out of the shell I’d been hiding in for years.

Brooke introduced me to guys who eventually became my best friends, to girls who became girlfriends, and more importantly to a version of myself I didn’t know existed. Which, in hindsight, was exactly what I needed as a marketing major.

Funny how that works. Introverts always seem to pick the most extroverted careers possible.

I smile at the thought, absently rolling up the in-flight magazine in my hands. I’d seen her during boarding and in my eagerness to say something, anything, I’d fumbled the damn thing and dropped it. Which, well… led to that moment.

I’m still thinking about that damn magazine when the soft clink of the meal cart pulls me out of my head.

And there she is.

Brooke. Hair swept up, lips glossed, uniform crisp, but it’s not the outfit that gets me. It’s the way she moves. Confident, practiced, like she’s done this a thousand times and yet every step still feels deliberate.

“Chicken or pasta?” she asks, voice professional, but there’s the tiniest curve at the corner of her mouth.

“Chicken,” I say, clearing my throat. “Definitely chicken.”

She leans in just a little more than necessary as she hands me the tray, the scent of her perfume wrapping around me, citrus and something soft I can’t place. Her fingers brush mine, light and fleeting, but enough to send a pulse straight through me.

“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Marketing,” she teases under her breath before moving to the next row.

I stare at the tray like an idiot, my heartbeat louder than the engine hum. Two years, and somehow she still knows how to disarm me with nothing more than a look and a touch.

There aren’t many people in first class five, maybe six, which is kind of the point of my journey. Planes aren’t just about getting from A to B. They’re about the lifestyle, comfort, ease, exclusivity. And if our next campaign is going to work, it has to show that.

At least, that’s the excuse I gave myself for booking a seat up here instead of economy like usual.

My tray table still holds the remnants of my chicken salad, fork pushed aside, a few leaves left behind. It was good, or maybe I was too distracted by the flight attendant working the aisle to notice.

Brooke circles back with the drinks cart, stopping beside my row. A bottle of red wine glints in her hand. “Refill?” she asks, tipping it slightly toward my half-full glass.

“Sure,” I say, leaning back. “Though I should warn you, I’m here on official business. Market research.”

“Oh?” she says, arching an eyebrow as she pours. “And what’s the verdict so far?”

I let my gaze travel from the perfectly pressed uniform to the subtle swipe of lipstick and the easy confidence in the way she moves. “Service is… exceptional,” I say, grinning.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest flush in her cheeks. “I’ll make sure to pass that along to the crew.”

“Do,” I reply, taking a sip. “And let them know the flight attendant in 2A deserves a raise.”

“Flattery doesn’t work on me, Basen,” she teases, but she doesn’t step away either.

“Oh, I know,” I shoot back. “I was around for two years of you not laughing at my jokes.”

Her lips twitch. “You’ve gotten better since then.”

“Or maybe,” I say, lowering my voice just a touch, “you’re just easier to impress these days.”

She leans in slightly, close enough that her perfume hits me again. “Don’t push your luck,” she murmurs, straightening up.

I smirk. “I know a thing or two about luck.”

“Do you now?” she asks, tilting her head, that familiar spark lighting up her eyes.

“Mm-hmm. And I have a feeling mine’s about to change.”

“Big talk for a guy still wearing half his lunch,” she quips, nodding at the stray piece of lettuce clinging to my sleeve.

I laugh, actually laugh as she disappears back down the aisle. But I don’t miss the way she glances over her shoulder once, twice.

Before I can even ask about dessert, another flight attendant, the one who did the safety demonstration earlier appears and leans in to say something to Brooke. She listens, nods once, and starts making her way down the aisle.

As she passes my seat, her fingers graze my forearm, a light, deliberate sweep that lingers just a second too long to be accidental. It’s nothing, really. But it feels like something. A whisper of touch, barely there, yet it leaves a trail of goosebumps across my skin long after she’s gone.

And then she’s gone, slipping behind the curtain into economy.

I keep waiting for her to come back. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Nothing.

I slump deeper into my seat, swirling the last of the wine in my glass.

Dammit, I think, staring at the empty aisle. I should’ve booked economy.