Chapter 4
FOUR
Dakota lay on the love seat, staring at the woven bamboo screen he’d closed between them.
The cushions were too short. His legs hung off the end at an awkward angle. A wicker support beam dug into his shoulder blade. In about two hours, his back would form a knot, and by morning, he’d be moving like an arthritic seventy-year-old.
He didn’t care.
The nightmare still clung to him—the heat, the dust, the moment when everything went wrong. But worse than the dream was the memory of waking. Of grabbing Jayden’s wrist hard enough to bruise. Of seeing his own wildness reflected in her eyes.
Did I hurt you?
No. You’ve got a strong grip, but I’ve had worse from overeager handshakes.
She’d made it sound casual. Like being grabbed by a man twice her size in the middle of a nightmare was no big deal.
What kind of hotel inspector had experienced worse?
The question circled back, insistent. The way she’d talked him down—calm, steady, knowing exactly what to do.
Decent negotiating skills for a hotel inspector.
So yeah, there was something more there, but that was a question for tomorrow. For daylight. For when his chest didn’t feel like it was being squeezed in a vice.
The rain drummed steadily on the roof. Beyond the screen, he heard her breathing settle into sleep rhythm. Soft. Even. The sound of someone who’d finally let go.
And despite everything—the nightmare, the shame, the love seat slowly torturing his spine—something in Dakota’s chest loosened.
Blame doesn’t help anyone.
He’d spent six years blaming himself. Six years running threat assessments on everything, trusting nothing, making sure he never missed another detail that could get people killed.
But lying in the darkness, listening to her breathe on the other side of the screen, Dakota felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Safe. Not in a way that turned off his inner radar, but . . . maybe in a way that loosened the fist around his heart.
Because somehow, with her on the other side of the screen, the ghosts had receded. The weight in his chest had lightened.
He closed his eyes. This time, the dreams stayed away.
Dakota woke to pale light filtering through the windows.
He lay on the love seat for a moment, cataloging the damage. His vertebrae were rusty hinges. His legs had gone numb.
Worth it.
He sat up carefully, testing each joint. Peeking around the screen, he could see the bed—rumpled sheets, abandoned pillow wall, no sign of movement. She was still asleep.
He grabbed his things and slipped out quietly.
The morning was impossibly beautiful. Storm-washed and clean, the air smelling of salt and sun and paradise.
Made a guy sort of not want to leave.
The main lodge was already buzzing with activity. Storm-stranded passengers clustered around the front desk, voices raised in frustration. Yes, flights were being arranged, but all were overbooked—might be days before they could get a seat.
Dakota found a corner table and tried to figure out his next move.
He needed to get to Sydney. Ham was expecting him. And if their guess about something going down while President White was in Sydney was right, they had just under a week to land this.
He pulled out his phone, started searching for options. Private charters were astronomically expensive. Cargo flights didn’t take passengers. The commercial airlines—
A woman’s voice carried across the lodge. British accent, talking to someone at the front desk. “—heard there’s a tour company offering seats? Aussie Adventures something?”
Dakota looked up. The travel writer from yesterday’s flight was gesturing animatedly. The desk clerk nodded, pointed toward the breakfast area.
“Bonnie Morrison, over by the buffet. She’s coordinating the charter.”
Dakota spotted her—a woman with a clipboard and relentlessly cheerful energy, wearing a polo shirt with “Aussie Adventures Premium Tours” emblazoned across it.
He was on his feet before he’d fully decided.
“Excuse me. Bonnie?”
She turned, smile bright. “Morning, love! You were on yesterday’s flight?”
“Yeah. Dakota Rivers. I heard you might have seats available on a charter to Australia?”
“That’s right!” She tapped her clipboard.
“Sydney’s shut down too—different system rolled in off the outback last night, could be days before they reopen.
But we’ve got a tour-company charter coming in—a private plane, should be here in about two hours.
It’s a guided package, five days, ends in Sydney.
They had a couple of cancellations. You interested? ”
“Definitely. What’s the cost?”
“Well, the full tour package runs about four thousand Australian dollars, but given the emergency situation, we can do three. That includes the flight out, accommodations, activities, most meals through to Sydney.”
“No, for just the flight.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Oh. Right. “So, how long is the tour?”
“Five days. One day in Cairns, two days in the Hunter Valley, one day in Melbourne, then to Sydney for the finale. Transportation and hotels included.”
Okay, so they’d ditch the tour when they landed in Cairns. No harm, no foul.
“I’m in. But I’m traveling with someone. Can you add her too?”
“Of course!” Bonnie scribbled on her clipboard. “Can you remind me of your full names?”
“Dakota Rivers and Jayden Pierce.”
She wrote them down, then asked for his number. “Perfect. You’re all set.” She handed him an information packet and brochure. “Plane leaves at ten. We’ll have a bus to take everyone to the airstrip.”
Dakota took the packet, nodded his thanks, and returned to his table. He pulled out his phone and found the confirmation Bonnie had sent him, and forwarded it to Jayden.
He heard a phone beep from not far away and looked up.
Jayden stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, softened to a quiet wave. She wore yoga pants and a clean T-shirt, and when she looked at him, she smiled.
And it simply lit him up, starting at his bones, working heat all the way through his body.
Oh. Wow.
He shoved the empty chair across from him away from the table with his foot.
She stopped. Looked at him.
“Saved this for you,” he said.
Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise. Relief. Something warmer that he didn’t want to think about.
Calm. Down.
“Morning. You’re up early. Please tell me you got some sleep.”
He nodded. “Although I might need a chiropractor in the near future.”
She smiled wider, and he had to look away before he combusted. She set her pack down, then went over to the coffee station.
And he let out a breath.
She came back over with her coffee and a fistful of sugar and creamer packets.
He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology. For last night.”
“You already apologized.”
“I know. But I want to say it again now that I’m . . .” He gestured vaguely. “More awake. More myself. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”
“You didn’t put me in any position.” She wrapped her hands around the coffee cup. “It was a port in a storm. And like I said, you didn’t hurt me. All good.”
He studied her face, looking for signs that he’d damaged something. Broken the fragile trust they’d built. But she met his eyes, and he only spotted . . . well, a friend for sure.
Maybe more, if he were a guy who had room in his life for that.
“So. Good news,” he said.
“That’s how I like to start my day.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Hit me.”
He hid a smile. “The tour company a bunch of our fellow passengers were traveling with have chartered a plane to get their group to Cairns and then Sydney. Their insurance covers stranded travelers.” The waitress set down a basket of baked goods—croissants, a Danish pastry.
He took a croissant. “I talked to the organizer this morning. Got us on the manifest.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Asked nicely.” He shrugged. “Told her we were traveling together, needed to get to Sydney. They had extra seats.”
She blinked. “We’re joining a tour group?”
“Unless you’ve got a better option. Everything else is booked solid or grounded.”
“No, I—” She paused. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”
He leaned forward. “We don’t have to actually go on tour. We can ditch in Cairns.”
She had taken the Danish. “Speak for yourself there, Bugsy. I might want a tour. Where are they going?”
Bugsy?
“Cairns, Great Barrier Reef, wine country, Melbourne, to see the penguins.” He set the brochure on the table. “The whole tourist experience.” He took another bite. “I was going to be in-country a week early anyway. I suppose if we stick around, it does get us to Sydney.”
“Yes, it does,” she said quietly, as if she was testing the weight of it.
Huh.
“I suppose I could do a few inspections . . .”.
“Plane leaves in two hours,” he said finally.
The charter plane turned out to be a regional jet, big enough for sixty, and the tour company had booked every seat. Dakota’s best guess was that about thirty would stick around for the tour.
Dakota recognized some faces from the original flight. The bird-watcher with the Hawaiian shirt. The British travel writer. And Vic, of course. Looking slightly better than yesterday but still gripping his armrest like it might save him.
The tour guide—Bonnie—assigned seats as passengers boarded, clipboard in hand and that same relentless cheer.
“Dakota Rivers? You’re in 12C, love. Aisle seat.”
“And Jayden Pierce?”
“Let me check . . .” Bonnie scanned her list. “7B. Also aisle.”
Five rows apart.
Dakota told himself it was fine. Good, even. After last night, after everything, they both needed space. Distance to remember they were basically strangers who’d happened to share an emergency landing and a cabin.
Except she didn’t feel like a stranger, did she?
He found his seat. Stowed his bag. Settled in.
The elderly bird-watcher—Gerald, he remembered—claimed the seat beside him with the enthusiasm of someone who’d found a captive audience.