CHAPTER 1
She just had to get through the airport. Fifty yards and then she was free.
For at least three whole days.
Britta White pulled her sunglasses down from where she’d pushed them up on the black wig—seriously, who decided synthetic hair should feel like wearing a wool cap in August?
—and scanned the Key West International Airport arrivals area.
Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed everything in that golden-hour glow, the kind of light that belonged in a travel magazine or a perfume commercial, all soft and dreamy and promising adventure.
And in her case, three glorious days of freedom.
Because she’d done it. She’d actually done it.
DC felt like a lifetime ago instead of eight hours.
The coffee shop with the back exit. The bathroom where she’d transformed from polished and predictable into black-wigged and anonymous.
The Uber that had picked her up three blocks away, the driver barely glancing at her face.
One of her sanctioned travel identities—used without telling anyone.
She’d walked onto that Miami flight as Sarah Miller, sat in coach—actual coach, with the crying baby and the guy who snored and the tiny bag of pretzels—before the final hop to Key West completely, gloriously alone.
No shadows, no eyes tracking her every move.
Freedom would be the salty air and the heat on her skin.
Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her denim cutoffs—actual cutoffs, the kind she’d ordered online and had shipped to a friend’s apartment because there was absolutely no universe in which she could wear them at home—and she pulled it out. A posting in her group chat of girlfriends.
Imani
How’s Operation Wedding Getaway going?
Britta texted her back while she moved toward baggage claim.
Britta
I did it. I’m in Key West. Alone.
Imani
You actually lost them?
Britta
Took a flight to North Carolina, over to Atlanta, down to Miami, and then to the Keys. I’m currently living my best anonymous life.
Imani
You’re my hero.
Britta
I’ll accept that title. Along with Master of Disguise and Queen of Covert Operations.
The baggage carousel clunked and whirred, spitting out luggage.
The smell of salt air mixed with recycled airport atmosphere and tropical flowers from the gift shop.
A crowd exploded near the arrivals gate—someone’s grandma getting mobbed by squealing grandchildren, all of them wearing matching Keys Family Reunion T-shirts.
She grabbed her suitcase off the carousel. Britta moved past them, her cheap flip-flops slapping against the polished floor, and—
Someone stepped into her line of sight.
Not someone.
A guy.
Okay, objectively speaking, this particular guy was the kind of attractive that made you forget what you were doing.
Dark hair that looked like he’d just rolled out of bed or off a surfboard.
Faded cargo shorts and a vintage Journey T-shirt that hung just right on shoulders that suggested he either lived at the gym or had won the genetic lottery.
Flip-flops that had seen some serious mileage. A backpack slung over one shoulder.
He moved through the terminal like he owned it, or like he’d been there so many times it had become an extension of his living room. Easy. Unhurried. Completely unburdened.
Hot.
Her phone buzzed again, another member of her group text.
Madeline
Please tell me you made it without incident. Just in case the world starts to panic.
Britta
I’m fine.
Imani
She’s definitely a criminal mastermind.
Britta
I prefer tactically creative.
Britta looked up from her phone, searching for another glimpse of Mr. Vintage T-Shirt and Unburdened Lifestyle.
There. Near the baggage claim. Waiting for his bag with the kind of patience that suggested he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.
Must be nice.
—and here was the thing her brain did, the thing that had gotten her through ten years of photo ops and practiced smiles and being whatever version of herself other people needed—he’d make an excellent meet-cute for her novel.
She was already writing it in her head.
The airport was too crowded, the kind of crowded that made your skin itch and your patience evaporate. I’d been traveling for six hours, my phone was dying, and I’d just watched my perfectly planned vacation start to implode in real time. That’s when I literally ran into him.
Literally. Like, full-body collision. My bag went flying, my sunglasses clattered to the floor, and I would’ve joined them if he hadn’t caught me.
“Whoa,” he said, and his hands were warm and steady on my arms. “You okay?”
I looked up—way up, because apparently my meet-cute came in a six-foot-something package with eyes that were doing interesting things to my ability to form complete sentences.
“I’m—yes. Sorry. I was—”
“Running from something?” One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Or toward something?”
“Both?”
“Sounds like a story.”
“You have no idea.”
Britta shook her head, pulling herself back to the terminal, to the very real situation that was significantly better than her fictional version because this was actually happening.
She might be free at the moment, but she had to stay on her toes.
The bathroom sign beckoned—not because she wanted to hide, but because her wig needed adjusting and her lip gloss had worn off during the flight.
She pushed through the door. Three stalls, all empty. A mom with a toddler washing hands at the far sink.
Britta claimed the sink on the other end and pulled off her sunglasses.
Her reflection stared back at her, and honestly, the black wig did her no favors. It turned her pale, even more washed out under the harsh lighting. The style fought her face, made her oval face too severe—far from her natural honey blonde.
But that was the point.
She looked nothing like the carefully photographed, professionally styled version of herself that showed up in news feeds and social media. Just another twenty-something heading to a destination wedding.
Perfect.
She adjusted the wig, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Fixed the slight gap where it had shifted during the flight. Reapplied her lip gloss.
Sarah Miller. Marketing consultant from Denver. Friend of the bride.
No security detail. No protocols. No expectations. Just Britta. Finally.
The mom and toddler left, the door swinging shut behind them.
Britta headed over to baggage claim.
Her phone buzzed.
Madeline
Don’t get too comfortable. They’re probably tracking your phone.
Britta
Burner phone. Gave you three the number, no one else. They don’t even know it exists.
She was twenty feet from the exit when she saw the dogs.
Two German Shepherds in official vests, handlers in Key West Police uniforms, working their way through the arrivals area with that methodical focus that made something twist in Britta’s stomach.
Security sweep for drugs. She was safe.
Don’t look at the dogs. Don’t look at the dogs. Not that they would alert on her, but…
C’mon, they aren’t tracking dogs. Calm down.
The dogs were twenty feet away. Then fifteen.
Britta kept walking. Casual.
One of the dogs—the larger one, tan and black with intelligent eyes—turned its head. Sniffed the air.
Changed direction.
Headed straight for her.
What?
No, no, no.
She’d made it through Dulles without incident. How—
The dog reached her. Sat. Looked up at its handler with that expression that clearly said Found something.
The handler—a woman in her forties with dark hair pulled back tight, “Rodriguez” on her name tag—approached with practiced calm. “Ma’am, would you mind if we check your tote bag?”
Every eye in the terminal turned toward her.
Including vintage T-shirt guy, who’d appeared near the gift shop with a bottle of water in his hand, watching the whole thing unfold with an expression that was part curiosity, part concern.
“Um. Sure.” Britta’s voice came out higher than she wanted. She set down her tote bag. The dog nosed her front pocket.
Oh, right. She cleared her throat. “It’s beef sticks. I have beef sticks in my bag. For protein. I get—low blood sugar. Sometimes. When I travel.”
Why was she explaining her medical history to a police officer?
Why couldn’t she stop talking?
“I’ll need to see them, ma’am.”
Britta set her tote bag on the floor, her hands shaking slightly as she unzipped it. She pulled out the beef sticks. Three packages.
“Just these,” she said. “Nothing else. I promise.”
Rodriguez took them, examined the packaging, then handed them back.
“You’re fine. Dogs alert on food sometimes. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
Britta shoved the beef sticks back into her bag, her face on fire, her hands still shaking slightly from adrenaline that had nowhere to go, and—
“Need a hand with that?”
Vintage T-shirt guy.
He’d moved closer, his water bottle still in hand, his expression friendly and just concerned enough to be genuine without being invasive.
“I—no. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“You sure? Because you look like someone who just had a minor panic attack over completely legal snack food.” His mouth tweaked up at one corner.
“Which, for the record, is totally understandable. Airport dogs are intense. They’re hunting for drugs and illegal substances, especially here in the Keys. ”
Despite everything—the wig, the alias ID, the eighteen hours of paranoia—Britta felt herself smile.
He held out his hand. “I’m West.”
“Sarah.” The lie fell easily. She’d been practicing. “Sarah Miller.”
“Where you headed, Sarah Miller?”
“Oh, I’m staying at a small island resort. I need to get to the wharf and catch a ferry.”
“I’m going to the wharf too. You need a ride? I’m about to grab an Uber.”
“Oh. I was just going to—”
“Because splitting it would be cheaper. And you look like someone who could use a friendly face after the Great Key West Beef Stick Incident.”
She laughed. And it flushed out the last of her panic adrenaline. “Okay.”