Page 29 of Misbooked for Love

“Done with what?” he recoils, crossing his arms in a defensive way.

“With this. The business, the meetings, the traveling. All of it.” I shove my laptop into my backpack, ignoring his sputtering. “I’m out, man. You can buy me out or I’ll sell my share to someone else. There have to be interested buyers. I’m not doing this anymore.”

“You can’t just walk away,” he snaps, his voice rising. “We’ve built this together.”

“I know,” I say, finally meeting his gaze. “And I’m beyond grateful for what we’ve accomplished, but this doesn’t fit me anymore. I need something different.”

My heart pounds as I step into the elevator, adrenaline like I haven’t felt in a long time coursing through me. For the first time sinceher, I feel alive.

By the end of the day, I’ve signed an offer on a small plot of land in Southampton, tucked between a golf club and a winery, with a little house and stables that have seen better days and are just enough to startboarding horses. It’s nothing like the sprawling polo fields I once called home, but it feels right. Like the kind of place where I can start over.

And that night, almost as if fate has intervened, a notification pops up.

Sofía

Hey. You don’t know me. I’m one of Clara’s friends. She’s miserable and she’s too afraid to tell you. So I’m helping her a little.

I stare at the message, my heart lurching.

Me

How bad is it?

Sofía

Bad enough I’m DMing you.

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Here I am, spinning my wheels, too scared to reach out and she’s feeling the same way.

I close the app and stare at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. I’ve spent weeks trying to convince myself that it was just a fling, that we were just two people in the right place at the wrong time. And that she couldn’t possibly be feeling the same things I wasfeeling for her, because it’s more than that. More than a vacation fling or a misbooking gone wrong.

I grab my phone again and open a new conversation. My fingers hover over the keyboard, the words forming and reforming in my mind. I hit send before I can overthink it, my heart pounding in my chest.

21

CLARA

“Welcome aboard,”I say, probably for the one hundredth time so far today. The hum of the plane’s engines is a familiar comfort as I stand near the entrance, greeting passengers as they trickle on board. The routine is second nature by now—smiles, nods, assisting with bags too heavy to lift, answering questions about seat assignments and arrival times. I’ve done this a thousand times before, but today, there’s a strange restlessness simmering under my skin, a weight I can’t shake.

I steal a glance at my watch. The flight’s delayed by nearly an hour, and the passengers are getting antsy, shifting in their seats and tapping their phones, sending off last-minute texts before we close the door.It’s the usual chaos, but it feels heavier today, and I know exactly why it is.

“Did you see the weather reports?” María Marta, one of my crewmates, asks as she leans against the bulkhead. She’s in her fifties, with a soft demeanor and kind eyes, the kind of woman who always knows when to pass along a word of comfort. She’s been doing this job long enough to have seen it all, but she still approaches every flight with the same quiet enthusiasm. “Apparently, there’s a storm coming in later tonight. We’re lucky we’re not going west.”

“Yeah, I saw,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I guess that’s why everyone’s in such a rush.”

María Marta nods, giving me a knowing look. “¿Estás bien?You’ve been a little quiet today.”

I shrug, offering her a half-hearted smile. “Just tired, I guess. You know how the New York flights exhaust me.”

It’s not a lie, not really. I am tired—tired of the endless flights, of pretending I’m fine, of replaying those twelve perfect days in my mind like a movie I can’t turn off. Every night since Tom left me sleeping in that bed weeks ago, I’ve gone back to that villa in my dreams, felt his arms around me, his breath on my neck, and every morning I wake up to the empty space beside me, the lingering scent of him on the sweatshirt I kept already fading.

“Alright, crew,” the gate agent’s voice crackles overthe radio, interrupting my thoughts. “We’ve got one more passenger running down the jet bridge. Just scanned in, so hold the door for a minute.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me, and I glance over at María Marta. “One last passenger,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Always one.”

María Marta laughs softly, shaking her head. “Always.”

The moment stretches as we wait, and I find myself lost in the familiar dance of anticipation—waiting for the last passenger, waiting for the next city, the next flight, the next moment that might bring something new. I fiddle with my uniform, adjusting my name tag, and let out a breath, reminding myself to stay focused.

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