Chapter 41
The vending machine spits my five-dollar bill back out like I’ve personally offended it.
I smooth the bill against my thigh, then try again. Still nothing.
I could buy the entire machine and have it delivered to a landfill if I wanted to, but right now, I just want a granola bar. One small normal thing in the middle of a very abnormal day.
The airport is chaos. Crying toddlers, boarding announcements no one’s listening to, a woman two gates down yelling into her phone like volume equals service. Everyone’s stuck. Everyone’s tense.
I’m not in a rush. I wasn’t looking forward to getting back to LA anyway.
It’s been two years since I stepped foot in the office. Not that anyone calls it that anymore. It’s “the legacy,” “the brand,” “your grandfather’s empire,” and I’m the one expected to carry it forward, like some reluctant heir with a perfectly curated smile.
But I can’t think about that right now.
Because I see her.
She’s at the counter, speaking to the woman behind it with this barely controlled desperation in her voice. I don’t hear everything, but I catch words. Interview. Tomorrow. Second chance.
With tense shoulders, she’s leaning forward, the counter holding her up, and her fingers are tapping rhythmically against the hard surface.
She looks tired. Not just in the physical sense, but in the way someone does after holding themselves together for too long.
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and there’s a flicker of something fragile in the tightness of her mouth—as if she's balancing on the edge of breaking but refusing to let it show.
Somehow, even with a large backpack slung over one shoulder, an oversized blue sweater, sneakers that have seen better days, no makeup, and hair pulled into a loose messy bun, she’s the most striking person in the room.
When she presses her forehead to the counter for a beat, something in my chest pulls.
It’s not sympathy. Not exactly.
It’s recognition.
I’ve stood in that exact place—not the literal one, but the feeling. When something is almost in reach but then the ground gives out from beneath you.
She lifts her head again and scans the terminal, and our eyes meet.
It’s only a second, maybe two, but it hits something in me I didn’t see coming—knocks the breath out of me before I even know why.
My brow lifts slightly, instinctively. Is she okay?
She blinks, and I look away first. Then the vending machine finally whirs and accepts the bill but gives me nothing in return.
Fitting.
My phone buzzes.
NICO
Please tell me you didn’t murder a flight attendant,
or anyone, really. I don’t have bail money this week.
ME
Still at the airport.
NICO
wow. proud of you for not snapping
how bad is it?
ME
Grounded. System crash. No flights in or out.
NICO
LA hates you.
ME
That’s mutual.
NICO
did your assistant get you a car?
ME
SUV. They said no rentals left, so she found one.
NICO
you mean BOUGHT you one?
ME
I’ll return it. Or donate it. I don’t care.
NICO
normal people don’t accidentally acquire vehicles
ME
there’s a girl
I shouldn’t have said that, but I did.
NICO
oh
do I need to grow wings and fly to Houston and stage an intervention?
wait
is this “girl” why you’re texting me instead of driving?
ME
she looks like she is about to cry
NICO
Max
my sweet emotionally stunted idiot
don’t fall for a stranger in an airport
ME
too late
I pocket the phone, and she’s still at the counter, still arguing, still unraveling, and I’m already wondering if I can help.
Not as me. Not as the guy with the name on the office door in LA or the assistant who can summon cars out of thin air. Just…as a guy.
One who knows what it feels like to have the world crumble around you and to need someone—anyone—to give you a soft place to land.