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CHAPTER 1
CASSIDY
Writing a eulogy in the middle of a hectic Heathrow Terminal 3 was never going to work out. It’s impossible to think with all the chatter around me. At points, I’ve even found myself writing what other passengers were saying rather than what I was thinking. Maybe the problem isn’t the chaos around me but that I’m thinking too much, trying to delve too deep into the biographical element of my tribute to Dad, when all I really need to say is that he will always be the best man I know.
Knew.
My eyes become glassy as I scribble out the paragraph I’ve written in my notebook, beneath the other few paragraphs that are crossed through line by line. Nothing I could say will do Dad justice, and it makes my chest hurt that I can’t poeticise his existence.
Taking a long gulp of the cheapest wine on the bar menu—an awfully dry Cabernet Sauvignon that’s got my tongue feeling furrier with every gulp—I drop my pen down on the bar top, followed by my glasses. The pressure in my head is throbbing right behind my eyes as I fight the overwhelming urge to cry. Ever since Dad died, I get that a lot. Sometimes something as simple as one of my students showing me a picture they’ve drawn of their family will set me off. Other times, it’ll be a memory triggered by a song, or even a stupid saying that Dad used frequently.
Everyone told me it was going to get better, that I wouldn’t feel so sad and so lonely after a while, but the hole my dad left when he passed has only grown bigger and darker. And I miss him more and more.
Shaking myself from my bleak thoughts, I focus back on the page in front of me and try to go back to writing a second eulogy for his memorial next week.
“Mind if I steal this seat?” A deep, naturally gravelly voice startles me from my thoughts when the bar stool beside me is dragged backwards, and the owner of said voice plops himself in it.
I notice his thick thighs straight away because of the way he man-spreads when his pristine designer trainers hook on the side bars by the footrest, showing off the tattoos that disappear beneath the hem of his dark jeans. My stomach does this instant squee that bubbles up to my chest when I force my gaze from the inked skin back to my paper, trying my best to act like I didn’t hear him.
“Take that as a no,” he rumbles, the twang of his American accent hooking my attention enough that I reply, “Not that you actually waited for an answer.”
My retort is loud enough for him to hear while I pick up my glasses and then proceed to cross out the three paragraphs I had already crossed out before. It’s not in my nature to be argumentative—I’m a type B-slash-type C personality—but I’m already riled up by my delayed flight. The cheapest return trip to Turkey I could afford on my dwindling savings from my four-year career as a preschool teacher.
“Never been a waiting kind of a guy.” A low, throaty laugh escapes him while I refuse to give him my physical attention. The manly gruffness of his voice combined with the expensive runners, tattoos, thick thighs, and confidence is enough to tell me that he’s not the kind of man you’d easily look away from. In fact, I’d bet he’s the type to demand every last ounce of your attention once you give him just a cheeky side-eye.
Lifting my wine glass to my lips, I sit up straighter and take a short sip that sends a shiver through me when the sophisticated musk of the man’s aftershave brings out the soil-like flavour in the wine. I want to say it’s earthy, but it’s actually just plain shit. If it wasn’t unsightly, I’d spit the wine back into my glass. Instead, I hold my breath and swallow.
“I won’t ask what you’re drinking,” he chuckles, playing the edge of the bar with his fingers—long, thick fingers that are almost too elegant for a man, but definitely too manly for a woman.
Christ. They’re fingers. Who cares?
I do. Actually, my ridiculous thoughts do because I can’t stop staring at them, not even as I put my glass down and another shudder washes over me thanks to the furry aftertaste smothering my tastebuds.
“You’re not selling it to me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The endearment hits me square in the chest, sending a pang of grief straight to my tear ducts.
“I’m not your—” The growl of frustration pushes past my lips only to die a sudden death when I twist in my seat to find a perfectly straight, white-toothed grin waiting for me.
Holy mother of fuck, my lungs sigh, while my brain farts whatever nonsense it can compute when my eyes rise to find an altogether flawless face, and hazel, marble-like eyes.
“Hi there.”
“Hi.”
A thick brow hitches up, almost touching his dark hairline when he asks, “You were saying?”
“W-well…” I stammer after a beat, and I try to think back to how I was before I saw his face. I knew it wasn’t going to be your average Joe’s mug, and I was right. Honestly, aside from how perfect it is, it’s giving me the urge to punch him square in the schnozzle, for no other reason than he’s still holding me hostage with his stupidly handsome grin.
Cocky bastard.
“Well,” he repeats, his lips puckering into a lazy smirk, all while his stare cuts down my body, landing right where I’m stabbing my fountain pen into my notebook.
“Mind your own,” I snap at him, slapping my hands over my page.
“I can do that,” he drawls, turning to look back at the shelves of spirits behind the bar.
“Well, there’s a good boy.”
