Three hours later, after cramped seats, restless legs, and the relentless hum of the engines, I’m teetering between excitement and exhaustion. My mind has been a carousel of hopes and doubts, cycling through every possible outcome of the interview—from stunning success to total train wreck. I’ve imagined it all, over and over, in the empty spaces between thoughts. No distractions, no escape, just the raw, unfiltered anticipation.
As the plane jolts and begins its descent, my heart does a little stutter-step, skipping a beat in excitement and fear. This is it—the first step toward proving that all my dreams could actually become reality. My fingers buzz with nervous energy as I grab my bag and join the slow shuffle down the aisle, ready to charge into the next stage of this journey.
Just as I’m about to step off the plane, I catch sight of a tall figure up ahead, moving with purpose like he’s got somewhere important to be. He’s leaving his first-class seat like he’s on a mission, and I’m about to dismiss it as a passing curiosity when something catches my eye—a sleek laptop left forgotten under the seat in front of the one he just vacated.
I hesitate, looking from the laptop to the retreating figure. I could ignore it, let someone else handle it . . . or I could run after him, try to return it myself. Before I can second-guess myself, I’ve scooped it up and am dodging through the passengers, calling out, “Hey! You! Yeah, the guy with the navy blue baseball cap and the totally unnecessary sunglasses.”
He stops, turning around with a look of surprise. Even with the sunglasses, I can feel his gaze on me, sizing me up with a mix of curiosity and mild amusement, like he’s not used to people calling him out. He’s got that effortless, almost-too-cool vibe—slightly messy hair, sunglasses as if he’s hiding behind apersona, and an air of casual confidence that feels both genuine and carefully crafted.
“Oh,” he says, his lips quirking into a lazy, almost playful smirk as he adjusts his sunglasses to look at me directly. “Did you chase me down just to say hi? Need something more from me, sweetheart?” His voice drops, smooth and teasing, with a hint of warmth that catches me off guard, setting my pulse racing. “You have very beautiful eyes—they could inspire songs.”
I stifle a laugh, not about to fall for whatever game he’s playing. With a half-smile, I extend the laptop toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Down, boy. I don’t think I like you at all. You left this behind.”
He takes the laptop, but his smirk doesn’t fade. Instead, it deepens, like he’s intrigued, like I’ve just become a puzzle he didn’t expect to find. “Are you sure? You seem awfully eager to chase me down.”
“In your dreams,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes, but there’s a flicker of something electric between us, a spark I can’t quite place.
For a second, the bustling world around us fades. It’s just him, with his disarming smirk and that almost-too-charming confidence, and me, caught in a moment that feels oddly cinematic, like something straight out of one of Mom’s old Meg Ryan movies.
His gaze lingers on mine, and I feel the pull, the way he’s sizing me up with interest, a challenge in his eyes as if he’s silently daring me to keep up. Finally, he breaks the silence, tilting his head as he studies me. “Well, Seattle just got a little more interesting,” he murmurs, slipping the laptop under his arm.
Chapter Twelve
Keane
When I getto the studio, the guys are already in the zone, working on the track I sent over last night. The melody’s still rough, the edges frayed just enough to make it feel alive. That’s how I like it—unfinished, full of possibilities. Inside, they’re locked in, nodding to the beat, muttering to each other in thatshorthand only we understand. I hang back for a second, letting the sound wash over me, feeling out where it might go next.
The studio smells the way it always does: a mix of stale coffee, sweat, and the metallic tang of the equipment. It’s not exactly pleasant, but it’s familiar, like an old sweater you can’t bring yourself to toss, no matter how many holes it’s got.
I should’ve been here hours ago, but my parents requested my presence. I had to attend their . . . Honestly? I can’t even remember what the fancy party was all about. And no, it wasn’t drugs or booze this time. I chose not to drink more than one flute of champagne so I wouldn’t get drunk. The kind of drunk I prefer to be when I have to deal with Kit Stone and his wife—or as they like me to call them, my parents.
So this time I don’t have to piece together the night like I usually do. I just didn’t give two fucks since I had to be there against my will and was stone-cold sober. Mom made sure of it, her eagle eyes tracked my every move while my brother, Rowan, thoroughly enjoyed my misery.
Let’s not forget the cherry on top—I missed my red-eye flight. Ended up on a plane with two layovers and zero dignity. At least something good came out of it, though.Her.That girl with the cute body and the witty comebacks. I owe her my life, kind of. If she hadn’t handed over my laptop, I’d probably still be curled up in some corner, mourning my entire life. Everything is on that laptop. Losing it would’ve been . . . catastrophic.
The music cuts out suddenly, and Brock lets out a loud curse after botching the riff. How many times have I told him? Looking for perfection in music is what ruins it. Nothing in this world is perfect, and music? Music thrives in its flaws. That’s what makes it beautiful.
I’m just about to head in and give him shit for it when I feel it again—that weird sensation.
It’s hard to describe, like a whisper brushing the back of my neck. Not bad, just . . . unsettling. The same thing I felt earlier, when she was chasing me down with my laptop.
And just like that, I glance toward the reception area and see her.
She’s standing just outside the glass doors, her silhouette backlit by the lights. Dark hair spills over her shoulders, soft and loose, a far cry from the messy bun she had going on before. And the unicorn hoodie? Gone. Now she’s rocking a vintage AC/DC shirt, jeans, and an old camera slung over her shoulder. She looks like she stepped straight out of an indie film.
Airport Girl.
She’s waiting for something—or maybe someone. Her head tilts slightly as she scans the area, and for a moment, she looks . . . lost. But not in a helpless way. More like someone who’s always a step ahead but isn’t sure what to do when the world decides to pause.
And me? I can’t look away.
It’s not just the way she looks, though yeah, that doesn’t hurt. It’s the way she moves, the way she is. Like she’s wrapped in this quiet kind of confidence, layered with just enough mystery to make you want to unravel it piece by piece.
I don’t even realize I’ve stepped closer until the door swings open. Then it hits me. What the fuck is she doing here?
It takes me a second to react, probably because the caffeine from earlier hasn’t kicked in yet. Note to self: find the intern and send them on a coffee run.
So now that I’m aware that this isn’t the airport, and she’s not stalking me, I get that . . . well, she’s here, in my world. She’s probably an art student. I should point out that the academy is across the street.
