Between Departures (Love In Transit #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

sam

The thing about my life is that every day holds a maybe, a what if.

Every trip I take, it’s a clean slate. Every city that I visit gives me the chance to be someone new, someone different, someone lighter.

And that’s why I love flying.

I don’t need to be Samantha Hayes. I don’t have to be the daughter of a man who built a global empire.

I don’t need to be part of a family that loves living in tailored suits, is well used to boardroom stares, and has people meddling in their lives.

I don’t need to be the ‘heir’ who is supposed to cash out a trust fund that’s been sitting in a bank account for over twenty-five years.

I get to be whoever I want to be.

“Do you ever think that we’re just like… cosplaying adulthood?” Rose asked, interrupting my daily crisis, as she entered my bedroom with coffee for both of us.

“Honestly? All the time,” I admitted, taking the coffee from her hands. “But hey, we’ve got hardwood floors, an espresso machine we barely know how to use, and a yoga instructor. Feels like we’re doing more than cosplaying it.” She rolls her eyes at me, laughing, because she knows it’s true.

We’ve been living together for a few years now, since that chaotic, wine-soaked layover in Madrid where she’d drunkenly offered me the spare bedroom.

Back then, she was living in a tiny apartment in one of the worst areas of the city.

The right answer to that proposal was obviously no.

Which is why I said yes, without even knowing her last name.

Now, we live in a very overpriced apartment with amenities we don’t use, a butler who has seen us drunk more times than I would like to admit, and has certainly seen a lot of visitors.

But hey, we’re just living life. It should’ve been a disaster back then.

Instead, it turned out to be the most solid relationship I’d ever had.

She is the best person I know in every sense that word can hold.

We share everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything.

From the whole skin care routine, to secrets and, of course, tears, lots and lots of them.

She knows when I need a distraction and when I need silence.

And she never, ever asks why I flinch when people ask about my last name.

She just respects me, and that’s all you can truly ask for in a best friend.

“The car will be here in fifteen,” she said as she disappeared into her room, and I turned back to finish my half-packed suitcase.

This is why I chose movement over stillness, temporary over permanent. Not because I’ve lived my life running. Okay, maybe I’ve been running a little.

But hey, the view will always be nicer at 35,000 feet than in a glass boardroom.

By the time we got to JFK, the terminals were buzzing with that organized chaos that only international flights can create.

There are rolling suitcases everywhere. A few screaming toddlers, whose parents are losing their minds, and people sprinting in heels like they are chasing the planes down the runway.

Rose and I move through it like professionals, which, to be fair, we are. We've done this routine hundreds of times. Hair tied up, glossy lips, fresh-faced in that barely trying, but very curated kind of way.

We have matching navy blazers, not-too-long, not-too-short skirts, and roller bags that look sharp and are way too organized. “I swear, if I don’t get pistachios and sour gummies in the next five minutes, I’m going to bite someone,” Rose muttered as we passed the Sun Valley News stand.

“Oh, that’s very wellness-core of you,” I said, grabbing a protein bar, a bag of almonds, and an emergency chocolate bar for the emotional support I’ll need after this flight. “You joke, but I saw a girl saying that the key to beating jet lag is sour candies and electrolytes.”

“I believe her,” I say without a doubt, because everybody has the right to cope with things the way they think they should. And I respect that. “You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter. I bet she’s right.”

We paid, shoved everything into our bags, and made our way through crew security, cutting past the endless lines of passengers, tired families, and one man loudly explaining crypto to someone who clearly didn’t ask.

Sometimes I forget how weird our life might look from the outside. The blazers, the badges, even the ease with which we float through the stress of everyone else’s travel day. We aren’t just in transit, we are the transit. The calm in the chaos, the smiles before takeoff.

Everything that happens between departures.

We stepped into the lounge, which was quiet and tucked away from the fluorescent terminal glare.

We slide into a booth near the back, away from the coffee machines and the clink of champagne flutes.

Rose grabbed a green smoothie and a mini sandwich.

I went for a matcha and a croissant, which I absolutely didn’t need but obviously wanted.

I lean back, sipping my drink, watching the room.

Business travelers typing furiously on laptops, a honeymoon couple taking selfies by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a group of pilots laughing too loudly by the espresso machine. Assholes.

I’ve always thought that airports have a funny way of blurring reality. Everyone here is between something. Between meetings, between countries, between relationships. And that’s what I like about it, I think.

Nobody expects permanence in a place like this.

Our phones buzzed in sync.

Boarding call, minus 25 minutes.

That’s enough time to reset, refresh, and slide into flight attendant mode like slipping into armor. “Ready?” I asked. “I was born ready, babe,” Rose replied, fixing her lipstick in the reflection of her phone.

We stood, pulling ourselves together. Okay, here we go. Lip gloss, check. Crew badge, check. Smile that doesn’t quite touch the eyes, check. At the gate, the energy was already shifting.

Our flight hasn’t started boarding yet, but people are already in line. I don’t know why people rush to get into the plane when they’re going to be there for the next eight hours.

“Sam,” a voice called out behind me. “Hold up a second.”

I turned to see Marla, one of the senior flight attendants on the roster. Red bob, heels that had seen three decades of transatlantic crossings, and eyebrows that could silence a grown man. She was flipping through a clipboard as if it were a weapon.

“Maya called out sick. You’ve been reassigned to First Class for this flight,” she said, not looking up.

“First?” I repeat, waiting for her to clarify.

“Yes, first. You look surprised.”

Of course, I look surprised. I am surprised. I didn’t plan for this. I haven’t worked first class in over two months. “I just—I haven’t been scheduled in a while, so I didn’t think—.”

“Well, now you are. Congrats, honey. You’ll be handing out Dom and Whiskey instead of Diet Coke.” I glanced at Rose, who gave me a half-smirk. “Look at you, Miss Champagne Cart.”

“Don’t act like you’re not jealous,” I shot back jokingly, though my stomach flipped a little.

Yes, first class can be intimidating, and while I’d worked it before, it has its own rhythm.

It’s more luxurious, there’s more service, more scrutiny.

It’s filled with people of status, and they are the kind of passengers who don’t just board flights.

They expect to be catered to like gods in leather seats.

They are the kind of people I ran away from.

“You’ll be up front with me,” Marla added, finally glancing up. “Don’t let them talk circles around you. They smell fear.”

“Copy that,” I said, adjusting my blazer. “No fear. Just foie gras and forced charm.” Rose gave my arm a quick squeeze as she passed.

“Text me if someone famous boards.” I rolled my eyes, but a small laugh escaped.

As I walked down the jet bridge toward the aircraft, I felt that shift again, that little click that happens every time the real world falls away and you're about to step into the sky.

The jet bridge door hissed open, and the first wave of First-Class passengers stepped onto the aircraft like they owned the sky.

I greeted them with practiced ease. A smile, a nod, and brief eye contact.

Most were absorbed in their phones or already annoyed by seat assignments. This is routine for them, as it is for me. They are all used to this.

Then he boarded.

Seat 1A

Tall, tailored, and annoyingly calm. The kind of calm that isn’t practice.

You inherit that shit.

Charcoal coat, white shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, no tie.

He has that look people try to recreate in fashion campaigns.

Effortless and expensive. But there is something else too, something unguarded around his eyes that didn’t match the rest of him.

He offered me a polite smile as he stepped into the cabin, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other gripping a carry-on that seemed brand-new but scuffed just enough to look used.

“Good evening,” a man said as he stepped into the cabin. I looked up from the galley cart.

“Hi, welcome aboard.”

I always try to make people feel comfortable, maybe a little joke here and there. Something to lighten the mood, but also something to make sure they aren’t assholes to me for eight hours.

“Looks like you are in my section today,” I said with a smile.

“Lucky me.” I gave a polite nod, motioning toward his seat. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure,” he said, slipping it off and handing it to me. He moved easily, unbothered, with no need to perform for anyone. I stowed it away and returned with a tray. “Would you like something to drink before takeoff?” He glanced up to face me. “Do you happen to have Jack and ginger?”

“Yes, we do.” I gave a small smile.

“Great. I’ll take one if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” I headed to the galley, fixed the drink, and returned a few minutes later. He was settling in, one arm draped casually over the armrest, watching the quiet bustle of boarding.

“Here you go,” I said, handing him the glass. He took it carefully from my hands and then looked up at me again.

“Thank you. You’re very efficient and fast.” I let out a short laugh. “Well, that’s a way to describe my job.” He laughed a little.

“You seem like you’ve got it down to a science.”

“It’s more like muscle memory at this point,” I said, then asked him, “Do you fly often?”

“Way more than I would like,” he said, taking a sip. “Usually business. But, this one’s a mix.” I nodded.

“So, Paris for both business and pleasure, huh?”

“Well, technically just work, but I’m hoping for a quiet night or two while I’m there.” I didn’t press. Passengers said all kinds of things. Some wanted to talk, some didn’t. He seemed like the kind who didn’t mind a good conversation but wouldn’t want to waste his words either.

“Well, let me know if you need anything else,” I said.

“Will do,” he replied, then leaned back and looked out the window. That was my cue to notice the conversation had just ended.

I moved on to the other passengers and kept serving some drinks. To be first class, there was nothing unusual happening, nothing worth remembering.

No famous people to tell Rose about.