Page 7 of Perfect Score

Now, I’m doing the walk of shame as I enter the aircraft. All seventy-four of the passengers already on-board and in their seats looking less than pleased as they wait for me to find my row so that our flight can leave on-time.

I can’t exactly blame them for being disgruntled. I would feel the same way, but I have good cause for my delay—in the pursuit of my sister's happiness. And technically, if TSA hadn't stopped me, I would have been here earlier. Besides, our flight doesn’t technically take off for another three minutes based on my boarding pass and the time on my phone.

I avoid eye contact as best as I can, gripping my camera bag so tight that my nails attempt to tear through the black nylon strap. If the flight attendant thinks she’s going to convince me to put my livelihood in the overhead compartment, I’ll have to muster up the little backbone I have and make a scene.

I’d rather swim in crocodile-infested water than make a scene in front of seventy-four strangers on a two-and-a-half-hour nonstop flight from Seattle to San Diego, but I will if it means not having to put my equipment up in the overhead compartment.

Not only is this equipment expensive, but it was also my graduation gift from Liam. He surprised me with it on the day I graduated high school and told me to pursue photography. He said that he would support my decision to pursue photography if it's what I wanted. It meant the world that he believed in me. I wouldn't have trusted myself to start a photography business if he hadn't encouraged me.

Now, I do well enough financially to do it full-time.

Unfortunately, he only saw my potential as a photographer, not as a life partner.

How sad is that?

What’s even more pathetic?

Our breakup is the reason that I moved from San Diego to Seattle. I wanted to avoid running into him and his new girlfriend. San Diego is a big city, but I knew in our small circles that I’d be faced with seeing them together in all of our usual spots.

So, I packed a few bags and moved to Settle to avoid running into my ex.

Thankfully, I had a few connections that could get me wedding shoot bookings immediately. A friend from high school was already established in Seattle and had a guest room waiting for me. It was also the place where Liam said he always wanted to live but knew he’d never leave his cushy job with his father.

I’ve had the same fantasy for the last year—that Liam would wake up one morning, board a plane to Seattle, and show up at my door begging me to take him back after realizing what a huge mistake he made throwing our future away.

This wedding weekend feels like the last chance for us. I have to hope that seeing me again will remind him of what he gave up, and he'll want me back.

As I shuffle down the aisle, squeezing past passengers with my camera bag bumping every armrest and shoulder in sight, I focus only on finding my seat.

Row 23.

Seat B.

Middle seat.

Ugh.

I shift my bag higher on my shoulder, and my eyes scan the rows, zeroing in on the numbers, avoiding eye contact with the glaring passengers I’ve just inconvenienced.

Finally, I spot my row and take a breath, ready to shove myself into the tiny middle seat.

And then I see him.

I freeze mid-step, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My feet suddenly feel cemented to the sticky aisle floor.

No. No way.

Brent Tomlin.

Every muscle in my body tenses. For a split second, my mind refuses to believe it. I blink a few times, like maybe I’m imagining him there because I’m just that unlucky. But it’s him—his broad shoulders nearly spilling into the aisle, his dark hair tousled just right like he's been running his hands through it, and those familiar seafoam-green eyes locking onto mine.

I grip the seat in front of me so hard my knuckles turn white, the world narrowing around me until it's just him. He’s massive,practically filling the entire space between the armrests, his knees pressed awkwardly against the seat in front of him. There’s no escaping the sheer size of him. Even if I wanted to pretend he isn’t there, it’s impossible. He'll take up all the space around me—both physical and emotional.

His eyes flash with recognition, and I swear the air between us grows thicker. He doesn’t smile. His lips press into a flat line, and I can’t tell if he’s as horrified as I am. But I feel the heat rising up my neck, spreading to my cheeks. My body reacts before my brain can catch up. Every part of me screams to retreat, to find another seat, another plane, another reality where Brent Tomlin doesn’t exist within two inches of me.

"Hi, Zoey," he says, his voice a low rumble that sounds far too intimate for this small space.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. His voice shouldn’t affect me, but it does, like a shiver working its way down my spine.

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