Page 7 of At First Flight
And for one crazy second, I think… maybe heisn’tkidding. And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me. Because today was supposed to be the worst day of my life.
And somehow, with his rough voice and ridiculous suggestion, this stranger is making it feel like it could be the start of something else entirely.
I cross my arms, mostly to stop my hands from trembling. “We are not engaged. And I was simply making conversation,” I bite out, praying my voice holds more certainty than I feel.
“Yet.Not engagedyet,” he says with a smirk that should be illegal. It’s too confident, too knowing, like he sees somethingin me I haven’t dared admit out loud. And dammit, it’s starting to work. My defenses fray a little more with every second I spend under that gaze.
I toss him a look, the only weapon I have left. “Do you just wake up with such a large ego, or does it progress as the day goes on?”
His smile turns wicked, eyes sparkling like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh, sweetheart. This isn’t ego. It’s called knowing what I want. And that, ghost girl, is you.”
My breath catches, and not just from the heat behind those words.Ghost girl.It’s a tease, but it cuts too close to the truth. Because I have been a ghost lately—drifting, empty, transparent in a life I thought was mine. A woman who lost herself in someone else's story. And now here’s this stranger, talking about wanting me like I’m real. Like I’mworthwanting.
I should laugh it off, roll my eyes, and change the subject. Instead, my heart does this ridiculous lurch, and my pulse thrums low and steady in places it has no business waking up.
Because maybe… for the first time in too long, I want to be wanted back.
The movie begins playing, and before I know it, Maggie Carpenter is riding on the back of a horse through a field, leaving the altar yet again. Thank goodness I hadn’t let the sham of a relationship get to that point.
Peeking at my newly acquired companion seated next to me, I notice that his lips move subtly, and then it occurs to me that he’s mouthing the words.
“How many times have you seen this movie?”
Dean smiles as he replies, “One time too many. It was my sister’s favorite form of torture.”
Nodding, I twist in my seat to face him more directly. “I know all about that. I have four brothers and sisters.”
“Four?”
“Yep. Never a dull moment in our household.”
“That sounds… amazing, actually.” A wave of sadness fills our confined space. Even without saying much more, I know that his sister is a sore subject. So it surprises me when he continues. “My sister and I only got to spend a little bit of time together growing up. Holidays. The occasional family vacation. Most of our days were spent at boarding school. But when we were together, it was awesome.” Dean pauses, his eyes searching mine. “But people change.”
“Yeah.” That is a sentiment I know all too well. Everything I knew over the last two years had changed. Not just me but also my so-called fiancé.
“You know what this is a great moment for?” he asks as he grabs a bag of chips from the attendant, who I hadn’t even noticed was standing in our row again. I kindly accept the package of cookies she offers and select my lunch.
“No, I don’t know what this is a great moment for,” I reply, startling Dean as he shoves a few chips into his mouth.
“Huh? Oh! This is a great time for sharing. I gave you a peek at me. You give me a peek at you. And I’m sure you can guess what I’m curious about.”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what Dean was referencing. The dress. The airport. The chaos.
“I’m not sure—" I say, my voice thinner than I’d like. It trembles under the weight of the words I’m not ready to say.
Dean doesn’t press. Doesn’t prod. He simply reaches over, his hand finding mine with quiet steadiness. His palm iswarm, grounding. His thumb sweeps gently across my knuckles in the kind of motion that shouldn’t feel so comforting from a stranger.
“Just tell me what you want,” he says softly. “I’m not here to judge.”
And it’s that—his voice, his steadiness, his lack of judgment—that almost undoes me completely. My stomach coils. That familiar churn of nerves, of regret, of raw, unprocessed panic. It hasn’t left me since I fled the boutique. It’s still there, twisting tighter every time I breathe.
“I was…” I stop, swallowing past the lump rising fast in my throat. I glance away, out the window across the way, where clouds drift by lazily, so unaffected by the disaster unraveling inside me. My eyes focus on nothing and everything at once. A smear on the glass. The blurred outline of Dean’s reflection. Anything but him.
“I was at my final dress fitting,” I say eventually, voice brittle. “My wedding’s in two weeks.”
The words feel foreign on my tongue now. Like they don’t belong to me anymore.
“My fiancé—” My chest squeezes tight around the word. “He’s been handling everything. The venue, the guest list, the menu. Even the dress.”
