"On a Saturday?"
"Business doesn't respect weekends." Neither does estranged family, apparently. "Neither do people who refuse to accept that some doors are permanently closed."
She's quiet for a moment, scanning my face. “I know what you mean. I’ve…had to close a door myself this week.”She raises her wine glass. "To us. The formerly optimistic."
I lift my scotch and tap it against her glass. "To surviving."
"And learning better."
"And twelve expensive shirts."
She laughs again, and I realize I've been trying to make her laugh.
When was the last time I tried to make someone laugh?
The next few hours fly by in a blur.
We talk.
About her sister's wedding, mostly, and her sister’s fiancé Declan. About her mother who calls too much with worries about money. About the apartment she can barely afford in Brooklyn.
And I listen. Talking intimately with strangers have never exactly been my strong suit.
But I damn sure know when to shut up and take things in.
"Can I ask you something?" Harper asks suddenly, smoothing hands over hair the color of caramel.
“You've been asking me things for two hours."
“You haven’t answered any of them, but…fair. This one's more... personal."
"Go ahead."
"Why did you let me sit here? You clearly booked both seats to avoid exactly this situation. You could have said no when the flight attendant asked."
I consider the question, consider all the practical answers I could give.
The truth is more complicated.
The truth is that when I looked at her—tomato juice dripping down my chest, this woman apologizing with her whole body, clearly having the worst day—I saw something I recognized.
Someone who needed a win. Any win.
"You looked like you needed some grace today,” I say finally.
Her expression softens. "I did. I really did. Still. Thank you." She reaches out and briefly touches my forearm—just a light pressure of her fingertips, gone before I can fully register it.
But I feel it.
The warmth of her touch. The scent of her skin—white roses and something deeper. Something decadent.
Something that makes my skin heat and slacks tighten.
"This has been the best part of my day," Harper says. "Possibly my week."
"Mine too."
I grit my teeth and try to push away the heat still humming under my skin. But we’re still looking at each other when the pilot's voice crackles over the intercom.
