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Just as I hit “Send” a man’s voice comes over the loudspeaker to announce my plane to LAX is now boarding. I lucked out. My gate is right across from one of those depressing little airport bars where I’m currently camped out with my carry-on. I close out my tab and, hiking my leather duffel over my shoulder—wheelies are for tools—I head for the front of the line at the gate. One of the perks of the millions of miles I’ve flown over the years: I haven’t sat in coach since I turned thirty.
This flight’ll take me to LAX, and then I’ll hop on a puddle jumper from there up to Santa Barbara. It took a couple days for Brian to answer Nora’s calls and messages, and another few days for us to iron out our travel plans. We finally booked a dinner with BamCo at a tapas place in downtown Santa Barbara on Thursday night, exactly a week from when the Trade That Shall Not Be Mentioned went down.
It’s Wednesday afternoon; I’m flying out a day early. Mostly because I love the West Coast, and Santa Barbara happens to be a particular favorite of mine. Tonight I booked a ridiculous suite at my favorite hotel, the Four Seasons, and have plans to belly up to the bar at a great little restaurant in nearby Montecito for dinner. Then I’ll work from my phone and laptop tomorrow until Nora arrives, and we’ll meet Brian later in the day. After that, it’s the first flight home on Friday morning, although I’m tempted to stay on the West Coast. The city’s hosting the Super Bowl over the weekend, and it’d be cool to be in town for that. I could probably score some tickets from a broker if I really wanted them.
I’m weaving my way through the crowd toward the jetway door when I bump elbows with a woman who’s staring down at her phone. I catch a glimpse of her screen. She’s looking at some kind of weather map. My eyes linger on the words turbulence report.
I look up at the woman and my stomach drops a hundred stories. She’s got her hair tied in a messy knot at the top of her head, and she’s dressed in jeans, a grey sweater, and sneakers. A totally different look than the one she rocks at the office, but my body still ignites with awareness. This dressed down, easy-like-Sunday-morning look works for her. The jeans are even broken in, the hem on each leg frayed. There’s the beginning of a hole above her left knee. A surprise, because I never would’ve guessed Nora owns jeans, much less wears them in public.
“Frasier,” I blurt. “What are you doing here?”
She startles, looking up abruptly from her phone. Her brown eyes go wide, flicking to my T-shirt before moving back to my face. “Morgan! You’re . . . early.”
“So are you.”
“I wanted to be in town by tonight. Brian mentioned he might be able to meet for a quick cup of coffee in the morning.”
The words are on the tip of my tongue: You weren’t going to tell me? Why? You gonna throw me under the bus, make me look like the bad guy here?
By some miracle, however, I’m able to keep my mouth shut. Maybe because saying that would make me the bad guy.
Maybe I’m the bad guy already, and I’m sick of feeling like shit about it.
“I wasn’t going to throw you under the bus if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nora says. I stare at her. Is she reading my mind now? Her eyes are kind, though, as she continues. “I just wanted to check in with Brian, make sure he’s okay. I know his bosses can’t be happy about the way things went down. The two of us go way back—I’ve been covering him for close to five years now. It’s going to take more than one dinner to repair the damage, and I figure while I’m out there I’ll put in as much time as I can to regain his trust. A good grovel never hurts.”
I keep staring at her. It’s a good strategy. Really good. She’s right about the grovel. My sisters practically swooned when the Duke of Hastings made nice with Daphne at the end of season one of Bridgerton, and now they won’t shut up about how epic season two’s going to be.
Honestly, Wall Street could stand to take some notes from romance. And I could take a note or two from Nora Frasier. I don’t deserve her kindness, not after the way I behaved in Aiden’s office. But she’s offering it to me anyway. Maybe it’s the slight buzz I have from that Manhattan, but something inside me says I should repay the favor.
That’s when I notice the hand holding her phone is shaking.
