CHAPTER 1 — The Airport Collision That Started It All
Airports were not made for dignity.
And today, Emma Hart had exactly zero of it left.
Her suitcase had popped open in the middle of Terminal C like a grenade packed with clothes, snacks, and three extremely embarrassing items she wished had stayed private. People walked around her scattered belongings as if they were landmines.
She knelt, trying to stuff everything back in while whispering, “Please don’t look, please don’t look…”
Someone cleared their throat.
A deep someone.
She looked up—and instantly regretted it.
A man stood above her, tall, annoyingly handsome, windblown hair, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, coffee in hand. The kind of man whose entire life probably fit neatly into one perfectly zipped carry-on.
He raised an eyebrow. “You planning to repack your whole wardrobe right here?”
Emma blinked at him.
“Do I know you?”
“No,” he said. “But I’m apparently in your way.”
He wasn’t. At all.
He had enough space to walk to Paris and back. But his smirk suggested the real obstacle here was her dignity.
She narrowed her eyes. “You could go around.”
“I could,” he said, sipping his coffee. “But you look like you’re about to explode from stress, and I didn’t want to miss the finale.”
Emma gasped. “I am NOT exploding.”
Behind her, a rogue sock shot out of her suitcase like a cannonball.
The man looked at it. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”
She grabbed the sock and shoved it inside. “Okay, thanks for your… unhelpful commentary. You can go now.”
Instead, he crouched beside her.
“Let me help.”
She froze. “Why?”
“Because watching you struggle is painful,” he said simply. “And also entertaining. But mostly painful.”
She stared at him.
He smiled—annoyingly charming, annoyingly perfect. The smile of a man who had probably never dropped anything in public ever.
“Fine,” she said. “But don’t touch the pink pouch.”
He paused. “Why not the—”
“DON’T.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
Together they shoved her belongings into the suitcase. When she finally managed to zip it, she stood and brushed off her jeans.
He offered his hand. “Lucas Miller.”
She shook it cautiously. “Emma Hart.”
“So, Emma,” he said, “are you always this… dramatic before flights?”
“I’m not dramatic,” she protested. “I just had a… chaotic morning.”
“Define chaotic.”
She hesitated.
“My alarm didn’t go off, my phone died in the Uber, I spilled yogurt on my shirt, and now I’m talking to a stranger who watched my underwear slide across the airport floor.”
Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “Seems like an average Thursday.”
Emma groaned. “Kill me.”
“Sorry, I’m fully booked for murder today.”
She stared at him. “…Are you always like this?”
“Only around people who look like they’re one inconvenience away from setting the airport on fire.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the loudspeaker crackled:
“Final boarding call for Flight 78 to Barcelona.”
Emma panicked. “That’s me! That’s my flight!”
Lucas grabbed her wrist. “Same. Come on.”
They ran toward the gate like two contestants in a chaotic reality show. Emma’s suitcase wobbled dangerously; Lucas steadied it without breaking stride.
They reached the gate just as the attendant was closing the door.
“WAIT!” they shouted in unison.
The attendant sighed. “Are you two traveling together?”
Emma and Lucas froze.
He turned to her. “Should we say yes?”
She hissed, “We literally met ten minutes ago!”
“Right,” he said. “So that’s a yes.”
“What?!”
He smiled at the attendant. “Yes. We’re together. Emotionally, spiritually, and tragically late.”
The attendant raised an eyebrow but reopened the door.
Emma shoved Lucas. “Why did you say that?!”
“Because it worked.”
She followed him down the jet bridge, grumbling.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he said, “are welcome.”
They boarded the plane.
To Emma’s horror, their seats were right next to each other.
Lucas grinned. “Well… looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Emma sank into her seat.
Perfect.
Fantastic.
Amazing.
She was trapped on a seven-hour flight with the world’s most insufferably charming man.
Lucas buckled his seatbelt, leaned closer, and whispered:
“So… about that pink pouch—”
“Shut. Up.”
He laughed.
And Emma looked out the window, cheeks burning, thinking:
This is going to be a disaster.
Or the best mistake she’s ever made.
