Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
sam
I stood near the galley door, smiling on autopilot, thanking passengers as they got off one by one.
Some of them were clearly in a hurry. “Have a great day,” I said to a businessman who didn’t look up from his phone. How rude.
“Thanks again,” a woman mumbled, balancing three bags and a neck pillow.
Then he appeared. He really took his time putting his stuff away and getting ready to step out of the plane. He looked freshly awake, hair a little tousled, shirt slightly wrinkled in the best way, bag in one hand, coat in the other.
Now that I really see him, he is tall, at least 6’2”, and moves with that easy confidence some men just have without trying.
His skin is a bit tan, and he has brown hair that curls slightly at the ends. A very well-trimmed beard, and hazel eyes that somehow look golden in this morning light. He is muscular, but not in the gym-obsessed kind, more like strong in a way that looks natural.
“I’ll give the short rib a solid eight out of ten,” he said, stopping in front of me.
I raised a brow. “Only an eight?”
“The ginger wasn’t quite spicy enough,” he added with a faint smile.
“Oh well, that’s tragic.”
“Yeah, but the service definitely made up for it.” I gave him the smallest smirk. “We aim to please.”
There was a pause. Not long, but not nothing either. It was like he was thinking about saying something else, but he didn’t. “Well,” he said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, “thanks for making the flight feel a little less like a flight.”
“Anytime.” He nodded once, the corners of his mouth lifting a little bit, then turned and walked up the jet bridge. He definitely was the most interesting part of my night.
I let out a slow breath and turned back toward the cabin.
First Class was quiet now, abandoned, crumpled blankets and empty glasses the only signs of life left. I started my routine, moving methodically through the space. I start fluffing the pillows, tossing the linens into the bin, and resetting the seats to their pristine, untouched positions.
It was strange how fast people disappeared. One minute you’re handing them a drink and listening to them talk about croissants and restarts, and the next, they’re just gone.
Still, I liked this part. The clean-up. The quiet. There was something comforting about putting things back in order, physical order, at least, even when the emotional kind was messier.
I tossed the last blanket into the cart, checked every seat one last time, then I grabbed my things from the jump seat, slung my tote bag over my shoulder, and headed to the back of the cabin, where Rose was already waiting, arms crossed, hair in a low bun that somehow still looked perfect.
“Finally,” she whispered. “If I don’t inhale a croissant in the next ten minutes, I’m going to pass out.”
“Please, I need one the size of my head,” I said, falling into step beside her. “With a coffee strong enough to reset my life.”
“Followed by a nap,” She smirked.
We laughed under our breath as we stepped off the plane and into the jet bridge, our steps syncing without effort. My hair is frizzy, the makeup is half-worn, but we still walk like we own the terminal.
* * *
By the time we got to the hotel, I was running on fumes and caffeine ambition.
But the second I stepped into the room, I felt like I could rally. The smell of clean sheets, the feel of blackout curtains, and that rainfall shower definitely give me hope.
Rose and I always book connecting rooms with double beds, but the doors between them stay open the entire trip, unless we have visitors, of course.
We move in sync, shoes kicked off, bags dumped, uniforms unzipped and tossed in a pile that future-us would deal with. “I need a ten-minute shower, or I will actually cease to exist,” Rose called out from her room.
“Make it five, and I’ll let you use my leave-in conditioner,” I yelled back, already halfway into the bathroom.
We had one real rule during our layovers.
Quick showers. That was it. A shower just long enough to rinse off recycled air, sweat, and whatever soul-sapping energy clings to you after an eight-hour flight.
The water hit hot, and I breathed out slowly as mascara traced little rivers down my face.
I didn’t even wash my hair, just twisted it into a low bun and let my skin breathe.
Within twenty minutes, we were out the door, oversized sunglasses on, glossy lips, sneakers clean enough to count as cute. Ready for coffee, croissants, and a couple of hours of pretending we live here.
“I saw you talking to a hot passenger,” Rose said as we stepped out onto the cobblestone street. “Tall, tan, business class energy, but with first class face.” She continued as I gave her a look.
“That’s not a real scale.” I shot back.
“Well, let me tell you something. It should be,” she muttered, adjusting her sunglasses. “He looked like he reads on purpose and probably orders whiskey without blinking.”
“Jack and ginger, actually.”
She grinned. “And you remembered it.”
“It’s my job.”
“No, Sam. That’s not your job. Your job is to make and deliver the drinks, not to remember the drink order after the flight.”
“So?” I shrugged. “He was nice. We talked a little, nothing major.” Rose gave me a side glance. “You were smiling. And not in your ‘here’s your hot towel, sir’ way.” I shook my head. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I? Because I’m also pretty sure Captain Morris a.k.a. Captain Flirt in 38C was giving me eyes.” I laughed. “Wait, the guy with the navy sweatshirt, and the smug smirk?”
“Yep. He’s one of the relief pilots for the return leg. Said he’s deadheading but might ‘see me around.’”
“Oh, he absolutely meant that in the ‘i-want-to-be-part-of-your-layover kind of way.”
“Obviously, but he’s an asshole, and he’s the type of man that has every flight attendant on a chokehold, and probably a text away from his bed.”
“Well, it’s not his fault that he is hot, and some of us are desperately in need of… well, companionship during layovers.” She rolled her eyes at me and made a joke about it.
We turned the corner toward a café we found last year on a similar layover, gold bistro chairs, tiny pastries, and the best espresso on this side of the Seine. “This is why we do it,” Rose said as we slid into a sidewalk table.
“Ten hours of recycled air, crying babies, and fragile egos... for this.”
“For buttery carbs and men who flirt and make eye contact like it’s a sport?”
“Exactly.” We ordered two coffees and a basket of fresh pastries, letting the city buzz around us.
This was the part of the job that felt like a reward. The part people only see on social media. The soft mornings, the stolen hours in a new place, the friendship you create along the way, and of course, the freedom.
By the time we drank our coffees and ate too many mini pastries, Rose was yawning behind her sunglasses like a cat in the sun. “I’m heading back to the hotel for a quick nap,” she said, stretching as she’d just run a marathon. “If I don’t sleep now, I’ll crash during dinner.”
I sipped the last of my espresso and stood, tucking my scarf into my coat.
“Go. I’m wired. That coffee hit harder than expected.” She narrowed her eyes. “Promise me one thing.”
“No Eiffel Tower without you?”
“Yep. You know me so well.”
“Scout’s honor.” She kissed me, spun on her heel, and disappeared down the street like a very glamorous Parisian woman.
I walked for a while, no destination, just following the rhythm of the streets. The city was soft this time of day. Locals on bikes, dogs wearing sweaters, the occasional tourist trying to figure out where their taxis vanished to. I loved this part. Being alone, but not lonely.
Unknown in a beautiful place.
Eventually, after losing track of time, I slid into a seat at a little bistro with red awnings and menus printed in French cursive.
The waiter barely blinked when I asked for a glass of wine; it wasn’t even noon, but apparently, I looked like someone who’d earned it.
After all, I had already had breakfast, so this was closer to my lunchtime.
And if they’re serving it, I’m drinking it.
I set my tote bag on the table, pulled out my phone, and opened the browser without thinking too much about it. Call it curiosity. Something has been crawling around the back of my mind since we landed.
Theodore Jones.
I typed it quickly, expecting maybe a LinkedIn profile. A press photo, if anything. But what I got instead were headlines.
“Tech Visionary Appointed as New CEO of Hayes International.”
“Theodore Jones Named Successor to Max Hayes.”
“Theodore Jones to Lead Global Expansion of Hayes International.”
I could feel how my heart stopped when I read that. My hands got sweaty, and I almost choked on my wine. Tech Visionary Appointed as New CEO of Hayes International.
I read the second headline as if it’s going to give me more clarity. Theodore Jones Named Successor to Max Hayes.
Oh no. Fuck.
He is the new CEO of Hayes International?
What are the fucking odds. I blinked and read it once again.
HAYES INTERNATIONAL? As in my Hayes? I blinked at the screen for the fourth time, and I kept scrolling until I found another picture.
But this time it was a glossy photo of him in a suit, shaking hands with my father.
Oh fucking fuck, kill me now.
I sat there for a full minute, maybe more, the wine untouched, and the screen burning into my retinas.
Hayes International.
Then I called Rose. She didn’t answer, so I called her again.
“Sam?” she answered groggily on the third ring. “What— are you okay?”
“I need you to get up.” She must be so confused right now. “What?”
“Get up. Right now. Throw water on your face. I don’t care what you need to do, but I need you to come meet me.”
“Where even are you—?”
“I just Googled 1A.” She paused. “Okay… and? What’s the matter?”
“And he’s the new CEO of Hayes International.” Silence. “Wait, wait. Hayes International… as in your Hayes International?” I stared out at the street, trying to slow my heartbeat. “Yes, as in my Hayes.”
“Oh. My. God. Hang on, I’m putting on pants. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Ten minutes later, I saw her walking down the street in jeans, sunglasses, and a trench coat. She slid into the chair across from me as she’d just been briefed on a crisis.
“So,” she said, catching her breath. “What the actual fuck?” I handed her my phone without a word. The headline was still open. Her eyes scanned it. Slowly. Once, then twice.
“Holy. Shit.”
“Yep,” I said, making an unnecessary emphasis on the p.
“Theodore Jones is the new CEO of Hayes International?” she repeated, voice low but intense. “Yep.” She looked at me. “Your Hayes.”
“Unfortunately.”
We sat there for a moment, my glass half full, hers untouched. I wasn’t really ready to say anything. But I also knew if there was one person in the world I could say it to, it was Rose. “I know you don’t like talking about them,” she said gently.
“I don’t.” I traced a finger over the rim of my glass.
The thing about my family is that they don’t do small. Or soft. Or optional. They do legacy. They do strategy. They have expectations that feel like contracts signed in blood.
My sister, Naomi, embraced it early. She was valedictorian in her class. The business school's top student. She went for corporate law, and was second in her class. But if you ask her, she was the first.
She was practically born in a pantsuit. And of course, now she works for the company, some shiny corner office at Hayes International HQ, doing God knows what for God knows how much money. And, I was supposed to follow.
We both were. That was the plan. Max Hayes’ daughters, one CEO, one COO, maybe CFO, depending on our career path. Those were the dreams my dad laid out for us like fine China. Very carefully, and very expensively.
But even as a kid, I didn’t want any of it.
I didn’t want the boardroom, the brunch meetings, or the fake smiles at shareholder galas.
I wanted stories, color, a mess. Things that didn’t have to be profitable to matter.
So, I majored in Art, History, and Languages.
I double-majored on a full scholarship. I graduated with honors.
And when I got my master’s, they still held on to hope, like I’d wake up one day and suddenly crave a corner office and a twelve-hour corporate workday.
Instead, I became a flight attendant.
At twenty-four, I walked away from the family and toward something entirely mine.
I’ve been flying ever since. I know I’m smart.
I know I could’ve crushed a career at Hayes International.
I could’ve run the place blindfolded with a latte in one hand and a PowerPoint in the other.
But that life? That world? It just… didn’t feel like mine.
I looked at Rose, whose brow was furrowed like she was trying to piece it all together.
“He has no idea I’m Samantha Hayes. I didn’t even say my name.” I said finally.
“What are you going to do?” I stared into my wine glass like it might have the answer.
“I have no idea. I mean, it’s not like I’m seeing him ever again.”