One Like Away (The Burrow #1)

1. Macey

MACEY

The Chicago airport was chaos. Rolling suitcases, last-minute gate changes, and people walking at the speed of molasses directly in front of me. I dodged a man who had come to a complete stop in the middle of the walkway, causing me to spill the remainder of my cold coffee onto my shoes.

One day, I’d experience air travel without feeling like a contestant on Survivor . At least I’d be home soon enough, where I could stretch out on my couch and eat snacks that weren’t individually wrapped in crinkly plastic.

If you had asked me where I’d visit on my first trip to California, I would have answered Los Angeles, San Francisco, or even Disneyland. Not Fort Bragg. Honestly, I had never heard of the city until two weeks ago, when an email from their public relations team appeared in my work inbox.

Such was the life of a travel writer—I didn’t get to pick my press trips.

Hopefully, in the future, I’d have the ability to be selective.

For now, I was a bottom-tier blogger, meaning I didn’t often get invitations to events like the Whale Fest in Fort Bragg.

And when I did receive one, it was either unpaid or they expected me to cover the costs of travel. In this economy? Definitely not.

There were worse places I could have been sent on a press trip.

For example, a remote island without any cell service.

In front of the Eiffel Tower, forced to watch couples younger than me get engaged.

Antarctica in the middle of a penguin march.

Say what you will, but I didn’t believe those birds were as nice as they looked.

My hand tightened around the strap of my backpack as I followed the signs for baggage claim, but then, I spotted her .

A woman, gliding toward the airport lounge.

Full-on gliding. Not weaving around suitcases or getting shoulder-checked by an overly ambitious businessman.

She wore a crisp white blouse, perfectly tailored trousers, and heels that looked both expensive and non-lethal—a rare combination.

Her hair was styled in some effortlessly chic way that made me hyper-aware of the fact that a few minutes ago, I had used the airport hand dryer to fix my bangs.

The woman stepped up to the lounge entrance, nodded at the attendant like they were old friends, and disappeared inside, swallowed by a world of complimentary drinks and whisper-quiet luxury.

I imagined her settling into a plush armchair, ordering an espresso martini without hesitation, and opening a hardcover book.

After all, a woman with a hardcover book at the airport had her life together.

One day, that would be me. One day, I’d strut into an airport lounge with the confidence of someone who wasn’t actively sweating under the weight of her own luggage. I’d skip the espresso martini and chug a Diet Coke out of habit, but best believe I’d try every available snack.

That would signify my career as a successful travel blogger. I’d own my own blog. Cover events bigger than whale migration. Have my people call other people’s people. Minions would clammer to do my dirty laundry.

For now, though, I was here—Chicago O’Hare, in all its unhinged glory—standing next to a guy loudly FaceTiming his mother about how TSA took his snow globe.

I snapped a quick selfie and sent it to the group chat that had blown up while I was in the air.

The Burrow Bitches

Kira: Yay you’re home!

Ariadne: Let’s have dinner soon so you can tell us about the trip!

Britney: did you tell the whales I love them?

My three best friends never failed to make me smile, even when I was a sweaty, disgusting mess who had just spent the weekend chasing whales and topped it off with a whale-themed 5K. At least I enjoyed running.

My phone vibrated with an incoming call from Kira, my roommate and oldest friend.

“Hi.” I tucked my phone between my cheek and shoulder, fishing through my purse for some gum. “I’m still at the airport, but I’m bringing home a Biscoff cookie and a bag of pretzels.”

Kira cheered. “I’m honored that you saved me your elite airline snacks.”

“Just call me your economy sugar momma.”

“We’ll workshop the name,” said Kira. “Do you need me to come get you from the airport?”

“How?” I laughed. “Neither of us has cars.”

Who needed a car in Chicago when you had two working feet, a CTA pass, and the sheer determination to power-walk faster than traffic ?

“Well, no, but I could show up in an Uber and pretend to pick you up that way.”

While I was new to out-of-state assignments, she had yet to offer to meet me at the airport.

“What’s really going on, Kira?”

She sighed. “Nothing, I swear. I just forgot how quiet the apartment is without you.”

“Are you calling me loud?”

“Well, I?—”

“Oh, shit .”

I had just decided to stop staring at the airport lounge like a raccoon locked out of a restaurant when suddenly someone emerged. It wasn’t the beautiful, perfect woman from earlier. No, it was someone much worse.

I could almost see the confusion on Kira’s face. The way her lips turned down and her brown eyes narrowed.

“What’s shit?”

“Noah Hansley is here.”

Oh, God, he wasn’t alone either.

Seconds later, the perfect woman exited the lounge and flagged Noah down to ask him for a selfie. I attempted to hide behind a pole as I watched the whole incident go down. Unfortunately, the woman was immune to Noah’s charms.

My neck cracked in two places when I peered around the pole to watch them. Should I visit a chiropractor about that? Wasn’t twenty-four too young to need the services of a chiropractor?

“What is that Instagram bad boy wannabe doing there?” Kira asked.

“No idea.” Probably relaxing and drinking martinis before boarding his first-class flight. “Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll see you at home, okay?”

Noah Hansley was the last person I expected to see at the airport, but I shouldn’t be surprised. The thought of him relaxing in classy airport lounges while I suffered in public areas made my eye twitch. It wasn’t fair.

Must be nice to be a tall, pretty boy who could get anything he wanted. Maybe it wasn’t so much the face as it was his million followers on Instagram.

Not that I kept track of his follower count. It frustrated me that all influencers had to do was show up at an event, snap a few selfies, and share a clever caption.

Meanwhile, I spent countless hours researching and writing long, in-depth articles. How was I rewarded? With smaller corporate checks and fewer press trip invites.

Noah had made it very clear that he didn’t like me.

Which, honestly, didn’t bother me. The problem was that he didn’t respect me.

When we met a year ago, we completely hit it off and even talked about doing a collaboration.

I had DM’d him some ideas, which he never responded to. He ghosted me completely.

For a young woman trying to build her career, it was frustrating to be denied a basic level of respect from a man showered in it for just existing.

Noah’s adoring fans on social media may love him, but he was an asshole. Most of his fans were into the smooth, didn’t-give-a-fuck-about-anything bad boy image. I didn’t get it.

The last thing I wanted to do was try to play nice with Noah. We usually ignored each other, so if he knew I was here, that was what he would?—

Oh, he was looking in this direction. It was fine. He’d look away any minute and go back to pretending I was lesser than him.

Except he didn’t.

I blinked once. Then twice. Pretty sure my vision faded for a moment there, but when it became clear again, it was Noah’s bright green eyes I was looking at. So bright they were almost yellow. Like a warm spring day.

He took one step forward in my direction. On instinct, I dropped the remainder of my coffee cup into the trash and bolted toward baggage claim.

Not taking that risk.

Once I was safe in my new haven—baggage claim 7—I leaned against the wall and waited for my polka dot luggage to come swirling down. Unlocking my phone, I tried to catch up on all the social media posts I’d neglected while working this weekend.

I was grateful that I was invited—whale-y grateful, if you will—but I was so exhausted. Between writing about whales, spending long hours by the sea trying to capture the perfect video, and running, I hardly stopped moving all weekend.

I opened Instagram. I ignored my notifications, aka fifteen memes sent from Britney when she was supposed to be studying, and mindlessly scrolled through my favorite travel bloggers. Clever captions, cute selfies, and gorgeous sceneries. Rinse and repeat.

Don’t do it, Macey.

Don’t even think about doing it.

…I’m gonna do it.

Against my will, my fingers typed in Noah’s handle: @noahhans.

Was it cool now to shorten last names? @MaceyMon could be my new handle. No, that was lame. Maybe I could shorten my first name, but then I’d sound like a weapon.

Hating myself more with every passing minute, I Instagram-stalked Noah Hansley. I didn’t know him that well—we’d only ever had one civilized conversation—but he knew how to make a good feed of photos and videos.

Technically speaking, his photos could use some work. They were choppy and in need of color editing. But his followers cared more about the subject than the quality of the photos. I could see why. Noah was… hot . Unfairly so.

Toffee-colored hair complemented his green eyes, and the strands were short yet wavy.

He had a sharp jawline, with sculpted cheekbones that drew your gaze all the way up to his dark eyebrows.

In every photo, he looked comfortable. Cocky.

Like he was the center of attention and he knew it.

His build was athletic but more like a runner than a weightlifter.

I bet I could outrun him.

I froze on an old photo of him in front of Chicago’s most famous landmark, the Bean.

There, in the background corner, was a younger me.

My hair was a lot shorter back then—I’d let it grow to the longest it had ever been since, mid-back, and while it had been a pain to keep it dyed blonde, I loved it.

“Is that your boyfriend?” a middle-aged woman with a narrow nose, one she clearly was good at inserting into other people’s business, asked. She craned her neck to look closer at my phone. “He’s very handsome.”

“No,” I said, leaning away from her. “And he’s not that handsome.”

I accidentally bumped into the teenager next to me, and her glare sent me wheeling in the other direction. Back into the older woman. God, teenagers were terrifying.

The teen shamelessly looked at my phone. “No, he’s hot. I’d date him.”

“He is way too old for you,” I said. “Stick with the frat bros for now, okay? It’s a rite of passage.”

Noah was only three years older than me, but still.

“You’re not dating him, then?” The older woman seemed horrified by this reality.

“Nope.”

The last time I dated someone considered an influencer, it ended in disaster. It was best to stay far, far away from men with a checkmark next to their names on social media.

My comment didn’t faze the teen queen, who pulled out her phone to ask, “What’s his handle? I’m going to follow him.”

The woman on the right did the same, except at a slower pace. “Oh, me too!”

I face-palmed. Gaining Noah followers was not part of my goal for today.

When the woman said, “Sorry, I can’t read that small font,” and reached for my phone, I tugged it back. She had a strong grip, but I grew up with a cell phone and had stronger fingers.

I told her his handle and pulled my phone out of her grasp. Only to accidentally double tap the photo on the screen. Shit.

I just liked Noah’s photo from a year ago. Permanent proof that I was online stalking him. What should I do? Let it be? Unlike it and hope the notification disappeared? Unlike it and like his most recent photo instead?

I let the like remain and prayed he got so many notifications he wouldn’t notice. We didn’t even follow each other on social media. He probably wouldn’t recognize my profile anyways.

Yep, it would be fine.

If things went my way, I’d never see Noah Hansley again.