Chapter 1 – Gate C17
Mia Tran discovered she was at the wrong gate exactly three seconds after they announced final boarding.
“Last call for Flight 482 to Rome, departing from Gate C17.”
She looked up at the giant screen above her that said, in calm glowing letters:
GATE A5 – FLIGHT TO HELSINKI – DELAYED
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, clutching her backpack.
She sprinted.
Her suitcase wheels squealed in protest as she weaved through the chaos of Terminal 3: families, crying toddlers, a man asleep on three seats like a dead octopus. She dodged a businesswoman, apologized to a vending machine, and nearly took out a cardboard standee of a smiling airline pilot.
By the time she slid to a stop at Gate C17, hair half out of her bun and lungs on fire, the gate agent was just reaching for the microphone again.
“Please,” Mia gasped, slapping her boarding pass on the counter. “I’m here. I exist. I’m emotionally attached to this plane.”
The gate agent scanned her pass, unimpressed. “Mia Tran. You cut it very close, Ms. Tran.”
“I like living on the edge,” Mia panted. “Of punctuality.”
A voice beside her said, amused, “Of course you do.”
She turned.
The man next to her was annoyingly put-together for someone at an airport. Dark hair, navy jacket, carry-on slung casually over his shoulder. The kind of guy whose passport photo probably looked good.
He held out his boarding pass. “Liam Bennett. Aisle seat, chronic over-packer, and witness to your heroic sprint.”
She squinted at him. “Were you behind me the whole time?”
“Hard to miss the woman who nearly murdered a cardboard pilot,” he said.
The gate agent sighed. “Yes, Mr. Bennett, you’re checked in. You can both board now. And please walk. The plane isn’t going anywhere.”
Mia muttered, “Tell that to my anxiety,” and headed down the jet bridge.
Liam fell into step beside her. “Rome for business or pleasure?”
“Both,” she said. “I’m photographing a travel article. Which technically counts as work, but also involves pasta, so.”
“Entirely fair,” he said. “I’m going for a conference. I talk about boring things and pretend it’s glamorous.”
“What do you do?”
“Data analyst,” he said. “I kill joy with spreadsheets.”
They reached the plane door. As Mia stepped inside, she glanced at her boarding pass.
“Seventeen C,” she murmured.
Liam looked at his own. “Seventeen B.”
They both paused.
“Absolutely not,” Mia said. “I already have to sit next to men who don’t understand armrest boundaries; I cannot handle one who’s seen my cardio death sprint.”
He grinned. “Fate put us together in the middle of economy. Who are we to argue?”
“Fate didn’t print these,” she said. “A bored airline algorithm did.”
“Same thing,” he replied.
She tried very hard not to smile as they walked toward Row 17.
