She looks better than I imagined.
Her cheeks are beet red, almost the same color as her deep auburn hair. The blush spreads when I pull out the stool next to her and sit.
“Long layover?” I ask.
“Yeah. Well, no,” she corrects. “My flight was canceled. I mean, not canceled, but…” She chooses that moment to look at me and promptly loses her train of thought.
“Delayed,” I offer, helping her out with an inward smirk.
“Right, that’s what I meant.” She waves her hand in an attempt at being nonchalant. It almost works, but then her finger catches the handle of her coffee mug. It tips to the side and she gasps, lunging out and saving it just before it tips over.
But it doesn’t save her fingers. A steaming splash of coffee spills over the side, dousing her hand and the table.
“God-fucking-shit-dammit!” she cries out.
I stare at her for a moment before I snort with laughter. The color floods back onto her face as she looks around for something to wipe her hands with. I produce a few napkins from the container to my left and wrap them around her coffee-soaked fingers.
The moment I touch her, she stills. She looks up at my face, watching as I dab the coffee away. She must assume I’m too busy helping her to notice the blatant thirst in her eyes.
But I notice.
I notice everything.
“There,” I say, once her hand is relatively dry. “You’re good. Just a little wet.”
“Thank you for—wait, what did you just say?”
“Your fingers,” I say, just innocently enough that she can’t accuse me of straying too far over the line. “They’re still a little wet. And probably sticky. Until you can take care of the issue.”
“Oh.” She turns towards the taxiing planes so she doesn’t have to meet my eyes. “Yeah. Right.”
Her mortification is palpable. Nuclear radiation levels of embarrassment. It’s making this little run-in so much more entertaining than I had anticipated.
She takes the remaining napkins on the table and tries to sop up the coffee puddled around her mug. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
She turns to me, eyes wide in surprise. Then she catches the obvious amusement on my face. She smiles, and I realize her brown eyes are actually hazel. Shards of green in them catch the light from the window.
She’s prettier than I anticipated, too. But that’s neither here nor there.
Yet.
“I’m not usually this awkward, either,” she adds.
“I don’t think I believe that, either.” I pause, then throw her a lifeline. “Delayed flights are the worst. I’m delayed, too.”
“Oh, yeah? Where are you headed?”
“San Francisco.”
“No way! Are you flying UA523, too?”
“Yes, I am.” I nod. “Looks like we’re going to be stuck here together for a while.”
She sits up straighter, gaining a little confidence as we talk. “I guess so. And of course, this would be the one flight where I forget to pack my sketchbook in my carry-on.”
“Sketchbook? Are you an artist?”
I already know all of this about her, of course, but I feign interest.
“‘Cartoonist’ is my official title,” she says, dipping her head self-consciously. “I freelance, mostly.”
“Interesting line of work.”
“It can be,” she says brightly. “What do you do?”
“A little bit of everything.”
She raises her eyebrows. “That’s an evasive answer.”
“Don’t women like mysterious men?”
Her blush returns. “I don’t know. Depends on the woman, I suppose.”
She bites her lip to hold back from blurting anything else, but she shouldn’t even bother. Because I already know everything there is to know about Ms. Olivia May Lawrence, twenty-five years old, owner of a Bachelor’s degree in fine arts, half a dozen mostly dead house plants, and an addiction to Hot Cheetos. I know where she shops and where she eats. I know when she leaves her home and when she returns. I know when she sleeps and when she wakes, and hell, I’m pretty damn sure I know exactly what she dreams.
So no, the little kiska doesn’t have to say this particular truth for me to know it, too: that she is exactly the kind of woman who likes mysterious men.
Maybe even dangerous ones.
“I’m Aleksandr, by the way,” I tell her, bailing her out.
“Alexander,” she repeats clunkily.
“Try saying it like you’re not so painfully American,” I laugh. “Or we can just go with ‘Aleks.’”
She winces. “Was it that bad? I take it you’re not American.”
“Not by a long shot.”
“You don’t really have an accent, though.”
“I learned long ago to leave that behind.”
“Hm, also very mysterious. You’re really leaning into the whole persona.”
I tilt my head towards her. “Pot, kettle. You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Oh, right,” she laughs. “Liv. Short for Olivia. Not nearly as interesting as your name. But I suppose it fits. I’m not too interesting, either.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
I didn’t expect to be so drawn in by her. She’s an attractive woman. Beautiful, even.
She’s just so focused on making herself disappear that her beauty is not immediately apparent.
Her jeans are high-waisted and well-fitted, but they’re covered by a long, baggy white blouse and a wool sweater that feels better suited to a seventy-year-old man than a twenty-five-year-old vixen.
“I’m going to call you Olivia,” I decide.
Liv is the awkward, insecure girl with an ugly sweater and hot coffee all over her fingers.
Olivia is the woman underneath all the layers. The one I came to find.
“Oh. Uh, okay, yeah, sure. Totally.” She smiles politely, but beneath it is a layer of confusion, like static electricity interrupting the TV show of her life.
She isn’t used to men like me. Enigmas.
I look down at the cup in my hand. “This coffee tastes like cat piss.”
She snorts with laughter, hiding it behind her coffee-stained hand. “It wouldn’t be high on my list of memorable cups, no. But it’s airport coffee, what did you expect?”
“If you know where you’re going, you can always find what you’re looking for,” I tell her. “Even in an airport.”
She narrows her eyes. “Where is this magical coffee utopia you speak of?”
“Do you want to come with me and find out?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Wait, really?”
“Why not?” I ask. “You’ve got a five-hour delay, same as me. That’s going to be hard to do without a proper caffeine hit.”
She hesitates. Her thoughts are written in her eyes, clear as day. She finds me attractive, but I’m a stranger. She wants to come, but she isn’t the kind of girl who takes risks.
Olivia is an open book.
And I want to rip her apart—page, by page, by page.
I see the moment she makes up her mind. She squares her shoulders and sets her jaw. “Okay. Let’s go.”
When I stand up, her eyes trail up slowly, growing wider with every inch. She’s not the first woman to ogle me like that. But she is the first one in a while that I’ve given a fuck about.
Just not for the reasons she suspects.
She blinks and looks away the moment she realizes I’m watching her watch me. Straightening her spine, she stands. “Lead the way,” she announces.
I smirk. “I always do.”
I shepherd her through the crowds towards the airport’s private lounge. It’s not the one for frequent flyers or harried businessmen. This one is tucked away behind a nondescript, pockmarked door with no obvious signage.
You have to know people to get in here.
I open the door and gesture for her to go first. She stops at the threshold and wrinkles her nose. “I didn’t know the best coffee in the airport was to be found in the janitor’s closet—oh.”
The words die on her lips when she sees what’s inside. I watch her, mesmerized, as the subtle glow of the lights reflecting off the bronze plaque light up her face like a constellation.
“Um, Aleks? I… don’t think I belong here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I think you need, like, some kinda exclusive membership to get in. They’re gonna take one look at me and call in the Peasant Removal SWAT team.”
“It’s a good thing you’re with me, then.” I reach into my pocket and retrieve my platinum membership card. “Come on.”
I usher her inward and pull the door closed behind us. The hubbub of the airport fades away at once. It’s quiet and still in here.
We round the corner and come into view of a burnished steel front desk, stretching in a smooth arc. Behind it, a clerk jumps to attention. I show him my card and he bows, then presses his thumb to a scanner just out of sight. There’s a pleasant hum, followed by a door to the left swinging open on silent hinges.
Olivia’s eyes go round as we step further inside.
The lounge is a cavernous, free-flowing space broken into open pods that mimic cozy living rooms. Deep, lush sofas bask in the sunlight, fresh-cut flowers gleam on each table, and mahogany desks bear cups of golden pens.
Off to one side is a sprawling buffet counter. I spy crab and lobster, jambalaya, omelets, half a dozen different soups bubbling in elegant pots. The smell is heavenly.
One of the hostesses notices us and strides over. I’ve seen her before—tall, curvy, with a blouse about three sizes too small and a very conspicuous lack of bra. I can’t recall if I’ve fucked her or not.
“Good morning, sir,” she says, ignoring Olivia completely. “Can I get you anything?”
“Two cups of coffee,” I tell her. “We’ll take it in one of the private lounges.”
The moment she disappears, Olivia sidles up next to me. She’s taller than I realized when I first sat down next to her in the cafe. I’d guess around five-nine or five-ten. The slight hunch in her shoulders tells me that she’s spent most of her life trying to make herself smaller.
“There’s a private lounge inside the private lounge?”
“Follow me.”
The private lounges are smaller rooms situated at the back of the greater hall. The furniture in here is darker, more sumptuous, more refined. A private space for doing private things.
Perfect for my purposes.
I escort Olivia inside one of the rooms. We’ve just sat down when the hostess buzzes in with a trolley of coffee and pastries. Among them are small squares of chocolate cake and multicolored macarons.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Privacy.”
The hostess hovers, glancing at me anxiously. There’s an invitation in her smile, but to her credit, she takes the hint and leaves, closing the pod door behind her. Smart woman.
Olivia looks at me with an awed expression. “So… you’re important.”
I shrug. “Or maybe I’m just a rich kid who is using his father’s membership.”
She wrinkles her nose. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
“No?”
We’re sitting on the same sofa, but she’s chosen to position herself a good three feet away from me. I’m surprised at how much that annoys me.
I’ve never been one to put up with anything I don’t like. So I move closer to her. She tenses as I slide in range.
“Um, well, no,” she repeats, struggling to pick up her line of thought. “You… you seem like the kind of man… who, um—”
“What kind of man do I seem like?” I press.
She gnaws at her bottom lip, looking distinctly frustrated with herself. “The kind of man who has made it on his own. Am I right?”
I smile. “Very good. You’re observant.”
“It’s because of my job,” she says. “I watch people. I like to see how they act when they don’t know anyone is watching.”
“Oh, but I am aware you’re watching,” I say softly. “Very aware.”
She flushes and jerks forward to pick up her coffee mug so that she doesn’t have to respond to that last statement. But she grabs it so quickly that more hot coffee splashes over the rim onto her fingers.
“God-fucking-shit-dammit!” she says for the second time.
I pluck the cup from her hands. “Interesting phrase,” I remark, trying to contain my laughter. “Haven’t really heard anyone swear like that before.”
She’s bright red with embarrassment. “My brother used to teach me stuff like that all the time when we were little. Mostly to get me in trouble with our parents, I now suspect. But my sister and I caught the habit and can’t let it go. Very unbecoming of a lady, I know.”
Setting the cup down, I unfold a thick cloth napkin and offer it for her to rest her hand in. She does so reluctantly, looking at me the whole time with a nervous tremor in her cheeks. I fold her hand between mine and dab away coffee yet again.
I move slower than I did before. Savoring the moment.
So much has gone into this that it would be a shame to rush through the moment.
“Oh, God,” she groans. “I’m sorry about this. You must think I’m the klutziest girl alive.” She looks up and gets trapped in my gaze.
“Actually,” I murmur, “I think maybe you’re doing this on purpose.”
“Why would I purposefully spill hot coffee on myself twice in a row?”
I look at her pointedly. “So I’ll clean it up for you.”
She freezes, but her eyes flash from our hands to my face and back again. It’s undeniable. Even if her brain isn’t choosing these actions consciously, her body is the one at the controls now.
I tighten my grip on her sticky hand and pull her against me. She hits my chest with a little gasp, but doesn’t pull away.
I press my lips to hers. Gently, at first. But as we kiss, Liv recedes into the background and Olivia takes over. Her plump lips soften and fall open. Her tongue darts out, exploring my mouth, confident and eager.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
But plans change.
