Page 1 of The Bossy One

1

DECLAN

An Irishman walks into an airport.

And wishes it was a bar.

Not the best of setups, especially when I was the Irishman, but what can I say? I was overtired, stuck in a hellish airport…and I’d hadfuckingenough.

I wasn’t usually like this, mind you—I might not be a saint, but I did know how to be a polite enough member of society. Of course, whether the Chicago airport was a part of society or the seventh circle of hell…well, the jury was still out on that one.

First, they’d kept my incoming flight on the tarmac for so long there was a chance I was going to miss my connecting flight. But I’d still thought I had just enough time to grab some damn food from an airport kiosk.

That was when the cashier confiscated my credit card and accused me of identity theft because, and I quote, “You can’t possibly be Declan Byrne. As if he’d ever fly coach.”

Because, obviously, Declan Byrne was so rich he must have wings made of money.

If only.

Now I was hungryandrunninglate. Everywhere I turned, there was some meandering idiot with a suitcase blocking my way, acting like they’d never been in a damn airport before. The last twenty-four hours had been a nightmare, and all I wanted to do was get on the damn plane that wouldfinallytake me to the sister who needed me.

I was panting when I got to the gate and shoved my ticket at the airline staffer.

He squinted when he saw my name. “Ha. Declan Byrne. Just like the Irish guy who invented that pathetic social media platform. Everyone acts like Snug is so great, but in my opinion it’s just for losers who hate humor. Did you know my account got flagged just for making a few harmless jokes about that bitch who won the Nobel Prize?”

I gritted my teeth.

For a split second, I considered buying the stupid airline and getting his contract flagged, same as his “harmless” comments had been. Lucky for him, I had bigger fish to fry.

He smiled conspiratorially. “Wonder what old Declan’s doing these days, eh?”

Seriously?

“I’ll tell you what he’s doing,” I replied. “He’s waiting for you to scan his fucking ticket.”

That did it.

His eyes widened, and he scanned the ticket so fast you could’ve mistaken him for a member of a Formula 1 pit crew. I ignored his mumbled apologies, rushed down the ramp, and onto the plane. I hadn’t flown economy in years, but this had been the fastest way to get to Faribault-Northfield, Minnesota. My business partner was already using our company’s private plane, and there had been some kind of paperwork hang up when I tried to charter a private one.

Contrary to popular belief, a gigantic pile of money isn’t the same as having a genie in a bottle. Then again, I think even a genie would have trouble finding Faribault-Northfield on a map. My sister wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted peace and quiet in the US.

If only she had found it.

When I got into my seat—if you could even call the scuffed-up chair a seat—I collapsed in relief.

“Passengers, please take your seats,” a flight attendant said. “We’ll be closing the cabin door soon to prepare for takeoff.”

At least there was no one sitting next to me. Maybe I could finally relax enough to get some damn sleep. With some luck, by the time I opened my eyes again, I’d already be at—

"Sorry, sorry! I got here as fast as I—oh, sorry!”

I heard a commotion up toward the front of the plane, and then a pretty redhead appeared, apologizing profusely as she hauled an over-packed duffel bag up the aisle. “I’m so sorry! Ooops, didn’t mean to… Shoot, was that your head, sir?”

I massaged my forehead, feeling a headache coming on. I just wanted to get to my sister Sinead and her daughter Catie. But no, I was on a damn plane, waiting for Miss Over-Packed Duffel Bag to find the right angle to squeeze her bulging bag in the overhead compartment across the aisle from me.

“It’s fine,” she said valiantly, smiling at no one in particular. “I’ve almost got it.”

She hopped in place, trying to shove her bag into the compartment with her shoulder. It was useless. If this was a cage match, that bag of hers would’ve been the clear favorite.

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