“When’s the last time you had a date?” West points at my face. “Because that expression? It’s going to scare off the wedding guests.”
“I don’t need to get laid,” I mutter, unable to remember the last time I have.
“Then what do you need?”
Fucked if I know.
2
VERA
Iloathe flying.
Every cell in my body rebels at being confined to a seat in a metal tube hurtling through the sky at unnatural speed.
But few carpenters worked over Christmas, and when the call came through about emergency repairs on Ceto Island, I volunteered.
Not like I have anything better to do at this time of year.
I hate the Christmas holidays almost as much as flying. Because this time four years ago, my shithead husband left me for my best friend.
Worst cliche ever.
So I’d done what any self-respecting thirty-six-year-old would do: spread his designer clothes across our front lawn and run the mower over them. Took the carefully wrapped Christmas gifts and distributed them among our neighbours. And keyed his car.
I’m not proud of the latter. But the hurt had built until I’d been blinded by rage and wanted to remind him he’d decimated our eight-year marriage without a single thought for me, and every time he saw that gouge along the side of his precious bloody sports car, he’d remember.
Stupid, really, considering he would’ve had it buffed out almost immediately, but it sure felt good at the time. But while he’s moved on and married my former best friend, officially known as The Skank in my kinder moments, I’m still grieving the loss of a life I once loved.
That’s what I miss most at Christmas. The camaraderie of hanging out with mutual friends, the comfort of sharing good food, the intimacy of cuddling up with Brett on Christmas Eve, secure in the knowledge we had a week off work to look forward to where we’d sleep in, eat junk food, and binge shows we’d missed during the year.
These days, I ignore Christmas altogether. Hard to fake merriment and joy when I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than be surrounded by the joy of others.
As the sole passenger on the way-too-small plane, I grip the armrests as the plane glides towards the tiniest landing strip I’ve ever seen. I close her eyes and grit my teeth as it touches down with an unholy bump, wishing I had faith in something so I could pray.
The plane taxies to a stop, and I finally crank open my eyelids, my stomach heaving as I unclip the seatbelt.
As the plane door opens, I lurch from my seat, desperate for fresh air. I almost tumble down the stairs in my haste, momentarily startled by the gorgeous guy with wind-tossed blonde curls and vivid green eyes smiling at me, before I push past him and hurl up the pasta I had for lunch.
Way to go with the first impression.
3
LINCOLN
“You okay?”
A redundant, stupid question, as the woman who barely made it off the plane before she chucked up slowly straightened, swiping a hand across her mouth, her skin a ghastly colour somewhere between green and grey.
“Do I look okay?” She mutters, unable to meet my eyes, and I don’t blame her. I’d be mortified too.
“There’s bottled water in the fridge inside the hangar.” I point to the shed that’s large enough to shelter a twin engine during cyclones, and doubles as a makeshift airport for guests when they arrive on the island.
“Thanks.”
This time, she looks at me, and I note her eyes are a striking hazel.
“I’m Linc.”
