That made everyone feel just super, didn’t it?
Dakota found his row—an exit row, at least, which meant legroom—and stuffed his messenger bag under the seat in front of him. His tablet was inside, along with the critical files he’d synced from his laptop before surrendering the bag. Small victories.
A larger fellow occupied the window seat, now pulling out his earphones.
The aisle filled with passengers shuffling toward their seats, wrestling with bags that wouldn’t fit, apologizing as they clipped each other with backpacks and elbows. Dakota watched them file past—the bird-watcher settling in somewhere behind him, the nervous guy (Vic, he’d said) clutching his armrests three rows back, the British travel writer asking for a cup of coffee before she sat.
The dark-haired woman stopped at his row.
Dakota looked up. She looked down. For a moment, neither of them moved.
“This is me.” She gestured to the middle seat beside him.
Of course it was.
Dakota stood to let her in, catching another trace of jasmine as she squeezed past. She dropped into the seat, tucked her bag beneath the one in front, and pulled out her phone.
He sat back down. Retrieved his tablet. Tried very hard not to notice that her shoulder was approximately two inches from his.
The silence stretched. Around them, the plane continued to fill—a symphony of thumps and murmurs and the particular slam of overhead bins being forced shut.
She spoke first. “You read the placard.”
Dakota blinked. “What?”
“The emergency-exit instructions.” She nodded toward the exit door across the row. “Most people just sit in the exit row for the legroom. They never actually read the operating procedures.”
“You were watching me?”
“I was watching everyone. Occupational hazard.” She tilted her head, studying him with those whiskey-colored eyes. “I know what you’re up to.”
Dakota’s hand stilled on his tablet. His blood went cold for one sharp, irrational second?—
“You’re trying to figure out whether you could actually deploy that exit door in an emergency.” She nodded toward the placard. “The answer is yes, but it’s heavier than you’d think. Forty-seven pounds. Most people can’t manage it under stress. Their hands shake too much to lift and rotate simultaneously.”
The tension in his shoulders released. He almost laughed. “You memorized the weight of the exit door.”
“I read a lot of airline safety manuals.” Her mouth curved. “Like I said—occupational hazard.”
“And what occupation requires you to memorize emergency-exit specifications?”
“I’m a hotel and travel inspector. I evaluate properties for hospitality companies.” She stuck out her hand. “Jayden.”
He took it. Her grip was firmer than he’d expected. “Dakota.”
“Like the state?”
“Family has a ranch in South Dakota.” He lifted a shoulder.
“You could have been named South.” She smiled.
And wow, she had a pretty smile, the kind that just zinged into him, ignited something warm inside him. Down, boy.
“So.” She settled back into her seat, tucking one leg beneath her. A chain with a locket hung around her neck, and she touched it, moved the locket on the chain, like a nervous habit. “What brings you to Sydney? Wait, let me guess.” She studied him for a moment—a quick, assessing sweep that he recognized because he did the same thing. “Business, not pleasure. Something serious. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Serious. And the way you scanned the cabin—like maybe you were looking for the one guy who might cause trouble.”
