Page 1 of The Forbidden Fling

Chapter One

Faye

When Faye imagined jet-setting to the warm shores of Portugal, she pictured clear blue skies and sunshine warming her face as soon as the crew opened the aeroplane doors. Instead, they circled the airport for an hour, waiting to land, and Storm Reneé met them on the tarmac like a smack in the face. Rain pelted Faye’s bare arms, the metal steps trembling underneath her feet. A man’s cap flew at her like a missile, and she screamed as it clipped the back of her head, smashing her brand-new sunglasses onto the tarmac.

Great. Just…great.

The wind howled as she hurried towards passport control, her dark hair whipping across her vision and into her mouth. Babies wailed as the wind tried to outroar the aeroplane engines. Pieces of paper flew loose from passengers’ magazines.

Once inside the building, Faye parted her hair like heavy curtains, the tangles wet between her fingers. She sighed, shifting her heavy rucksack from one shoulder to the other as the line slowly inched forward. To ease her worries that her luggage might accidentally end up in Asia instead of Europe, she’d packed most of her ostomy essentials in her carry-on. Her muscles ached from lugging around the extra weight, but it was worth the sacrifice.

Tell that to your back in the morning.

Even travelling under perfect circumstances would give Faye a migraine. The combination of being six months post-op and travelling on her own for the first time resulted in her imagining every fictional scenario, from the plane in flames to her being sucked down the cabin toilet.

Logically, she knew she’d be fine. She could last up to six hours before she needed to empty her bag—depending on what she ate—and it was a short flight. But the what-ifs always circulated in the back of her mind—a quality that made her the most organised twenty-six-year-old she knew but also frequently left her with a throbbing headache. Her brain didn’t know how to rest.

Hence, the enrolment on the Sandy Springs “Reset Your Life” course. A wellness retreat on a remote Portuguese island that—her dads were convinced—would give her the kick up the arse she needed.

David’s “You need to relax” meeting Lukas’s “Get out there and start living” had meant Faye couldn’t get a word in edgeways. She assumed it was the same with anyone’s parents, regardless of gender, but their end sentiment was the same: Faye had become a hermit who treated other humans like foreign lifeforms. And that needed to change.

Finally, the grumpy, stout man at passport control waved her forward. She’d been practising her Portuguese on a loop ever since taking her aisle seat on the plane. All those months spent hiding away from everyone weren’t totally unproductive.

You can do this. Be confident. Be clear.

Faye flashed a smile she didn’t feel and greeted the man with a “Boa tarde”, digging her nails into her palms. He glanced at her and muttered something incoherent—either Faye’s Portuguese wasn’t quite up to scratch, or he was a chronic mumbler. When she didn’t reply, he raised a fuzzy eyebrow.

Shit. Did he ask something?

Just as she imagined being dragged away in handcuffs for disobeying orders, he stamped her passport and called the next person forward. Hiding the warmth coating her cheeks, she thanked him anyway and headed towards the luggage carousel.

She fired off a quick Landed safe and sound text to her dads, then scanned the board, her fingers twitching under the strap of her rucksack. Her flight wasn’t listed. She blinked, the words jumbling together on the screen. They were delayed, but surely their luggage should have arrived by now?

Someone bumped into her, knocking her off balance. More bodies closed in, scurrying like rats. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t say anything. What if her suitcase never turned up? Oh god. She was going to end up stranded in the airport forever because she had the physical aggression of a comatose manatee.

Pain throbbed in her shoulders. The speakers overhead crackled, stumbling over a muffled message. Maybe they’d just announced her luggage had been diverted to Reykjavík. Faye didn’t know. She was going to die in this airport, the stale AC her last lingering memory of existence.

Then a flash of magenta caught her eye. She hurried to the adjacent belt, her trainers squeaking against the shiny floor as she weaved through the crowd. Suitcases piled up on the carousel like Jenga blocks. The knot in her chest loosened a smidge.

Hers was impossible to miss. She could hear David’s voice in her head. “Excellent job, Miss Pankhurst.” Her history-teacher dad loved the suffragettes and often compared Faye’s organisational skills to the founders of the movement. Faye wasn’t going to complain about that compliment.

Prepare for the worst and never be disappointed.

Strong women inspired her. Rosa Parks’s bravery, Ada Lovelace’s creativity, Amelia Earhart’s ambition. Faye believed there was a special essence in every person that surged when they faced adversity. Something she’d lovingly called the “enigma”. She just needed to find her own.

She inhaled a shaky breath.

It starts today, she reminded herself. Get a grip.

She tugged her suitcase free and started towards arrivals, sidestepping an enormous family of tantrumming children with snotty noses. Her head spun as her gaze combed the many placards. Get me out of here.

She spotted a sixty-something woman holding up “Faye Donovan” in sharp black marker, and her lungs let out another sigh of relief.

She wasn’t going to die in the airport. Hooray.

She noted the woman’s name badge: Carla.

“Olá. You’re finally here! Welcome.” A big grin spread across her weathered but kind face. A long, loose ponytail of dark hair dangled down her back, a silver septum piercing drawing attention to her button nose. She grabbed Faye’s suitcase and wheeled it away. “We must be quick. The weather is getting worse.”