GALATEA: Once Upon a Rockstar Chrismas 18+

Ariella

The airport four days before Christmas is where patience goes to die. Gate agents bark apologies on repeat, children wail like sirens, and exhausted travelers shuffle through terminals that smell faintly of cinnamon and despair. I’ve been sitting here long enough to finish half a glass of overpriced wine, and still no one can say when my flight might take off. The year from hell has apparently decided to go out with a final kick just for fun.

The bar around me hums with irritation. Suit jackets hang like wilted flags over chair backs, voices blend with clinking glasses, and the occasional announcement crackles above it all, another delay, another collective groan. If it weren’t for the looping Christmas music and the cheap garland drooping from the ceiling, no one could call it festive.

I take another sip of my wine and sink into the world of my friend’s rough draft, scrolling through the pages she sent me. Her stories are daring, unapologetic, and full of obsessions that dive straight into the dark. She writes what I secretly crave to live. We met three years ago at a book signing in Miami, both pretending not to notice how sweaty our pens were from nerves. Since then, she’s become my sounding board, my late‑night confidante, and lately, my temporary landlord. Her guest room has been my haven these past months, while she enjoys Hawaii with her boyfriend—a fact I’m trying not to envy every time she sends a sun‑drenched selfie.

A beach, heat, bare skin, and the taste of something sweet on my tongue, those should have been my December plans. Instead, here I am, marooned in holiday purgatory, surrounded by strangers and stress.

I pull out the little notebook that has survived every move, every bad relationship, every plan that went sideways. On a blank page, I scribble again: Goal—be more Louise than Thelma. The words pulse dull and accusing. I stare until the black ink blurs and sigh.

No matter how I dress it up, I’m still Thelma, careful to a fault, afraid to jump without knowing where I’ll land. Maybe courage is overrated, or I’ve just never had reason to test mine.

A quick scan of the terminal mirrors how I feel: everyone restless, half‑checked‑out, pretending not to be disappointed. I tuck the notebook away, promise myself I’ll stop thinking about him— that man‑shaped mistake I should’ve left months earlier. The breakup barely registered as pain, more like irritation that I’d stayed on autopilot so long. Now even self‑recrimination feels stale.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

The voice—a raspy Irish baritone- pulls me from my thoughts. I look up into the greenest eyes known to man. Moss after rain, forest dappled with light—mesmerizing. I blink once, twice, as heat spreads up my neck. His hair is a mess of brown waves, short on the sides, longer on top, one disobedient strand falling across his forehead. A scar slices faintly above his right brow, and I ache with the curiosity to trace it.

The man has no business being that stunning.

He wears a black thermal and dark jeans, but it’s the way his white undershirt clings to his chest that makes my pulse stutter. I force myself back to reality as he clears his throat.

“There are no open seats,” he says before I can answer.

“That’s a lie.” I point toward an empty table in the corner. “There’s one right there.”

We both watch as two people swoop in, claiming it.

“Not anymore,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yer my last hope. Too many delayed flights, too many desperate drinkers. Come on, give me a shot. I won’t bother ye too much.” One hand rests on the chair opposite me.

“Too much?” I echo, arching a brow.

Those sinful green eyes glint with mischief and sincerity in equal measure—a dangerous combination. He shrugs, then sits without waiting for permission. I don’t stop him. Honestly, I could listen to that accent all night. I might even write an Irish character just to hear someone narrate it.

“Aye,” he says. “But beautiful women shouldn’t sit alone in airport pubs.”

“What makes you think I’m alone?”

That smirk deepens. Before I can respond further, the overworked waitress stumbles through a crowd and reaches us, breathless.

“What can I get you? Anything to eat? Or drink?”

“Whiskey neat,” he says smoothly.

“Double or single?”

“Double.” He glances at my glass. “Make that two doubles—one for the lady. Keep ’em comin’. Could be a long night.” Then to me: “Hungry, darlin’?”

My pulse skips. I swallow hard. “N-no. Just the drinks.”

“Same,” he tells the waitress. “Thank ye.”

She all but melts under his smile. I can’t even blame her. She gives me a pitying, envious look before wandering off.

“What makes you think I wanted whiskey—or your company, for that matter?”

He rolls up his sleeves, revealing muscled, tattooed forearms, and intertwines his fingers on the table, casual yet deliberate. “Ye didn’t say no. But truth be told, it was the blush that convinced me. Wanna know a secret?”

“No.”

He grins, dimples appearing like punctuation. “Liar.”

“Only partly,” I volley back.

He laughs, and it’s rich enough to make people glance over. Our drinks arrive just then, the waitress barely hiding her sigh when he thanks her with a wink.

“Sláinte,” he says, raising his glass. “Means ‘cheers’ in Gaelic.”

“Sláinte.” I sip, meeting his gaze over the rim. “You speak Gaelic?”

“Only bits. My mam used to say it. Now—ready for yer secret?”

“Depends. You haven’t told me your name.”

A amused tilt of his head. “Ye don’t know it?”

“No, should I?”

He studies me, amused, almost incredulous. “I thought that blush was recognition.”

I narrow my eyes, sizing him up. Athlete? Actor? Musician? The waitress clearly knew him.

“Are you famous?”

“Depends who ye ask. Since ye don’t, I’ll say no. Tristan Dorrian.” He extends a hand.

“Ariella Harper.”

The handshake sparks, literally—static that feels like a warm pulse beneath my skin. His fingers tighten at my wrist, and I swear he feels it too.

“Must be the air,” he murmurs.

“Must be.” I cross my legs, refortifying myself. “So, Tristan—what’s this secret?”

“It was either sit here or with the angry bloke over there.”

I glance back to find a man muttering furiously into his ticket.

“He’s not alone,” I point out. “Everyone here’s murderous. My flight’s delayed, probably yours too.”

“Aye. Home to New York. The flight got canceled. Might catch one to Newark if luck’s kind.”

My chest tightens. “That’s my route.”

His smile deepens. “Then maybe fate’s throwing me a bone. If I’m lucky, you’ll even sit beside me.”

“You’re a flirt.”

“Only with women I’m desperate to impress. Is it working?”

“Not really.”

“Then I’ll have to try harder.”

He leans closer, and I catch leather and spice. “Word is, we’ll be airborne in an hour. The attendant told me herself.”

“Or maybe she just wanted you to smile at her.”

He laughs softly. “We’ll see. I’d rather not spend the night here—unless you stay too.”

I cover my mouth to stifle laughter. “That was terrible.”

“Yer beauty’s throwing me off,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “You make me nervous, believe it or not.”

That line should sound rehearsed, but his eyes make it feel disarmingly true.

He tilts his glass. “How about a game? Truth for truth. Skip an answer, you drink.”

“If you ask my favorite position, I’ll throw it in your face.”

He raises his hands, grinning. “Noted.”

“I should eat something before I drown in whiskey,” I admit. “Dinner on the plane was the plan, but that’s laughable now.”

“Then let me help.” He signals for the waitress.

“Yes, Mr. Dorrian?” she gushes.

I freeze. Mr. Dorrian. Definitely someone.

“What’ll it be?” he asks, eyes never leaving mine.

“Grilled cheese and fries.”

“Good choice. I’ll take chicken fingers and sweet potato fries.”

When she’s gone, I fix him with a look. “Alright, who are you?”

“No way, darlin’. You not knowing—that’s refreshing. For once, I get to talk to someone who doesn’t see the name first.”

“Who said I like you?”

He chuckles. “Educated guess. Ye haven’t gone back to yer book, and I’m still here.”

Touché.

“So tell me,” he says, leaning in. “What do ye do for work?”

“You won’t tell me yours.”

“But you’re far more interesting.” His grin widens. “Come on, Ari. Let’s play. I bet I can get ye to reveal all yer secrets.”