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CHAPTER
ONE
Ben
I push open the heavy, dark wood door of the hotel bar and step inside, the hum of my jetlagged brain muffled by thoughts of Kate Woodbridge. Legs leaden from hours spent in the cockpit, I let out a low whistle. The place is like a warm embrace after the sterile chill of airports—soft amber light wraps around me, coaxing the tension from my shoulders.
The bar's vibe is all low-key luxe—a hideaway for those who know where to find it. Plush velvet seats beg for bodies to sink into them, and the scent of aged whiskey mingles with the faintest hint of citrus and spice—probably some craft cocktail the bartender's dreamed up. Glasses clink in quiet conversation, and there's this smooth jazz tune winding its way through the air, slow and easy like honey dripping from a spoon.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the stiffness there. It's funny, you spend so much time chasing horizons, yet it’s a face—a damn beautiful one—that has you flying higher than any Boeing could ever take you. I can almost picture her laugh lines, imagine the warmth of her hand in mine. But that's all just a dream, right? Reality is this bar, the night ahead, and the need to drown out the 'what ifs' with something on the rocks.
I sidle up to the bar, the weight of my eyelids heavy as a pair of old leather boots. There's something about hotel bars at night—they promise anonymity and a shot of whatever you need to forget or remember. I'm here for the former, but as fate would have it, remembering is exactly what's on the menu tonight.
"Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender, not bothering with the small talk. He nods, accustomed to the weary traveler type—another guy just looking to take the edge off.
As he turns to grab a bottle from the shelf, my gaze wanders, landing on the television screen mounted on the wall. And there she is.
Kate Woodbridge.
Glowing like some Hollywood mirage, her image freezes me mid-breath. For a split second, I swear the room tilts towards her.
She's all over that screen, larger than life. The kind of beauty that slams into you, no apologies given. Those honey-colored locks tumble over her shoulders in waves, like they're made of light itself. And those lips, damn, painted ruby red, they're the kind that launch a thousand fantasies. They move, and I find myself wondering what it'd be like to hear my name spill from them.
"Here." The bartender's voice cuts through my reverie, sliding the whiskey across the bar top.
"Thanks," I mutter, tearing my eyes away from Kate's televised allure. But even as I lift the glass, the warmth of the liquor can't hold a candle to the heat that image stirs in me.
Cheers, to the impossible.
I knock back the whiskey, but it's like swallowing fire. Not the good kind that warms your belly on a cold night, but the kind that burns because it can't compete with the blaze Kate Woodbridge lights up inside me. I set the glass down a little too hard, my hand shaking slightly. She's got me, and she doesn't even know it.
I scowl. Get a grip, Ben. She's just a girl on a screen. But that's just it, isn't it? She's not just any girl. She's the girl, with a smile that could direct planes in the fog and eyes that twinkle brighter than the North Star I navigate by.
Duty and desire, they're at war in my chest. I'm a pilot. I live by checklists, procedures, and meticulously plotted courses. Yet here I am, charting a collision course with a woman who exists in a stratosphere I've never flown. My heart throbs a reckless Morse code, tapping out fantasies of tracing those ruby lips with my thumb, of whispering secrets meant for close quarters, not the vast expanse of a sky.
I chide myself, trying to latch onto the steady drum of reason. But that's the rub—the more I think about her, the more she feels like an updraft, irresistible and lifting me into uncharted territories.
I steal another glance at the screen, and there's that look in her green eyes, like she's searching for something real in the land of make-believe. God, what I wouldn't give to be the one she’s looking for. And what would I risk? My reputation? My job?
Too much turbulence. I half-laugh at the absurdity of being so tangled up over a woman I've never met. The laugh doesn't reach my eyes though. They're too busy tracing the curve of Kate's cheek, imagining the softness of her skin against mine.
Screw the risks. I need to know her.
"Rough skies today?" The voice cuts through my reverie, crisp and familiar. I turn to face Mike, a fellow pilot with laugh lines that speak of countless hours squinting into the sun.
"Smooth enough," I reply, my gaze lingering on the empty glass before me. "The usual dance with turbulence over the Rockies."
"Ah, the samba with Mother Nature." He chuckles, signaling the bartender for his own poison. "Never gets old, does it?"
"Never." I flash a grin, the thrill of the skies a shared language between us. "But it's the silence up there, you know? That pristine hush at thirty thousand feet—it's addictive."
"Like nothing else," he agrees, eyes gleaming with the same fire that fuels my veins—a passion for flight, the kind that has you chasing horizons like a love-struck fool.
"Then there's the view," I add, wistfully. "Sunsets that bleed colors you can't find anywhere else."
"True," he nods, lifting his glass in a silent salute to our high-flying escapades. "And the layovers in exotic locales don't hurt either."
"Perks of the job." But as I say it, my mind isn't on sandy beaches or bustling foreign streets. It's on a pair of green eyes that could outshine any tropical paradise.
