Chapter 1

ONE

Ben

I push open the heavy,dark wood door of the hotel bar and step inside, the hum of my jetlagged brain muffled by thoughts of Kate Woodbridge. Legs leaden from hours spent in the cockpit, I let out a low whistle. The place is like a warm embrace after the sterile chill of airports—soft amber light wraps around me, coaxing the tension from my shoulders.

The bar"s vibe is all low-key luxe—a hideaway for those who know where to find it. Plush velvet seats beg for bodies to sink into them, and the scent of aged whiskey mingles with the faintest hint of citrus and spice—probably some craft cocktail the bartender"s dreamed up. Glasses clink in quiet conversation, and there"s this smooth jazz tune winding its way through the air, slow and easy like honey dripping from a spoon.

I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the stiffness there. It"s funny, you spend so much time chasing horizons, yet it's a face—a damn beautiful one—that has you flying higher than any Boeing could ever take you. I can almost picture her laugh lines, imagine the warmth of her hand in mine. But that"s all just a dream, right? Reality is this bar, the night ahead, and the need to drown out the "what ifs" with something on the rocks.

I sidle up to the bar, the weight of my eyelids heavy as a pair of old leather boots. There"s something about hotel bars at night—they promise anonymity and a shot of whatever you need to forget or remember. I"m here for the former, but as fate would have it, remembering is exactly what"s on the menu tonight.

"Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender, not bothering with the small talk. He nods, accustomed to the weary traveler type—another guy just looking to take the edge off.

As he turns to grab a bottle from the shelf, my gaze wanders, landing on the television screen mounted on the wall. And there she is.

Kate Woodbridge.

Glowing like some Hollywood mirage, her image freezes me mid-breath. For a split second, I swear the room tilts towards her.

She"s all over that screen, larger than life. The kind of beauty that slams into you, no apologies given. Those honey-colored locks tumble over her shoulders in waves, like they"re made of light itself. And those lips, damn, painted ruby red, they"re the kind that launch a thousand fantasies. They move, and I find myself wondering what it"d be like to hear my name spill from them.

"Here." The bartender"s voice cuts through my reverie, sliding the whiskey across the bar top.

"Thanks," I mutter, tearing my eyes away from Kate"s televised allure. But even as I lift the glass, the warmth of the liquor can"t hold a candle to the heat that image stirs in me.

Cheers, to the impossible.

I knock back the whiskey, but it"s like swallowing fire. Not the good kind that warms your belly on a cold night, but the kind that burns because it can"t compete with the blaze Kate Woodbridge lights up inside me. I set the glass down a little too hard, my hand shaking slightly. She"s got me, and she doesn"t even know it.

I scowl. Get a grip, Ben. She"s just a girl on a screen. But that"s just it, isn"t it? She"s not just any girl. She"s the girl, with a smile that could direct planes in the fog and eyes that twinkle brighter than the North Star I navigate by.

Duty and desire, they"re at war in my chest. I"m a pilot. I live by checklists, procedures, and meticulously plotted courses. Yet here I am, charting a collision course with a woman who exists in a stratosphere I"ve never flown. My heart throbs a reckless Morse code, tapping out fantasies of tracing those ruby lips with my thumb, of whispering secrets meant for close quarters, not the vast expanse of a sky.

I chide myself, trying to latch onto the steady drum of reason. But that"s the rub—the more I think about her, the more she feels like an updraft, irresistible and lifting me into uncharted territories.

I steal another glance at the screen, and there"s that look in her green eyes, like she"s searching for something real in the land of make-believe. God, what I wouldn"t give to be the one she's looking for. And what would I risk? My reputation? My job?

Too much turbulence. I half-laugh at the absurdity of being so tangled up over a woman I"ve never met. The laugh doesn"t reach my eyes though. They"re too busy tracing the curve of Kate"s cheek, imagining the softness of her skin against mine.

Screw the risks. I need to know her.

"Rough skies today?" The voice cuts through my reverie, crisp and familiar. I turn to face Mike, a fellow pilot with laugh lines that speak of countless hours squinting into the sun.

"Smooth enough," I reply, my gaze lingering on the empty glass before me. "The usual dance with turbulence over the Rockies."

"Ah, the samba with Mother Nature." He chuckles, signaling the bartender for his own poison. "Never gets old, does it?"

"Never." I flash a grin, the thrill of the skies a shared language between us. "But it"s the silence up there, you know? That pristine hush at thirty thousand feet—it"s addictive."

"Like nothing else," he agrees, eyes gleaming with the same fire that fuels my veins—a passion for flight, the kind that has you chasing horizons like a love-struck fool.

"Then there"s the view," I add, wistfully. "Sunsets that bleed colors you can"t find anywhere else."

"True," he nods, lifting his glass in a silent salute to our high-flying escapades. "And the layovers in exotic locales don"t hurt either."

"Perks of the job." But as I say it, my mind isn"t on sandy beaches or bustling foreign streets. It"s on a pair of green eyes that could outshine any tropical paradise.

"Speaking of perks..." His voice trails off as he nods toward the television screen, where the interview I"ve been half-dreading, half-desiring flickers to life.

I stiffen. I don't like the way he's looking at her on the TV screen.

Jesus, what's wrong with me? I'm about to fight a fellow co-pilot for looking at her on TV with lust in his eyes? When no warm-blooded male on earth wouldn't do the same? She's every man's fantasy.

"She is something," I manage, my eyes glued to her image. There she is, radiant as a sunrise, laughter playing across her ruby lips even in silence. My heart thumps wildly, betraying my cool exterior. She"s miles away, yet she fills the space around me, her glow brighter than the low-hung lights of the bar.

"Quite the looker," Mike continues obliviously, swirling his drink. "Not that she holds a candle to the views at altitude."

"Definitely not," I lie smoothly, though Kate"s allure makes the grandeur of the skies seem suddenly pedestrian. I"m caught in her orbit, and as her interview unfolds, each word she mouths tugs me deeper into the fantasy of her world—a dangerous, delicious dream that I"m itching to turn into reality.

I tear my gaze from the screen for a brief moment, nursing the scotch in my hand like it"s some magical elixir that can bridge the gap between Kate Woodbridge"s world and mine. Mike"s voice fades into background noise, just another layer of the bar"s ambiance I"m tuning out. My pulse quickens with each passing second as I imagine what it would be like to meet her, to be near her.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, the liquid courage swirling in my glass not doing a damn thing to calm the storm she stirs within me. The possibility plays out like a favorite movie in my mind—walking up to her, seeing those emerald eyes light up, hearing her voice not through a screen but directed at me, only me.

I let out a low chuckle. How would I even introduce myself? Hey, I fly planes, you soar on screens, wanna see if we can find some common altitude?

Lamest pickup line ever.

I'm grinning like a drunken fool in the middle of the bar, but it"s no use. The fantasy"s got its hooks in me deep, reeling me in with every what-if and could-be. My desire for her is like a jet engine revving to full thrust, ready to break the sound barrier—or maybe just my own sanity.

Imagine she says yes. I muse, swirling the scotch. Imagine she looks at me and sees...what? A guy worth her time? It"s laughable, really, given our worlds are as distant as stars in different galaxies. But the heart"s got this funny way of ignoring logic, especially after a few drinks and the sight of someone like her.

My phone vibrates sharply against my thigh, slicing through the haze of my daydreams.

"Shit," I curse again, digging the device out.

"Excuse me," I tell Mike, thumbing the accept call button as I stand, the buzz of the bar fading away. I bring the phone to my ear. "Caldwell speaking."

"Mr. Caldwell?" The voice on the other end is unfamiliar, brisk, and all business. "We need to talk about a matter concerning your recent flight patterns."

"Flight patterns?" I repeat, my brain struggling to switch gears from fantasies of Kate Woodbridge to the sterile language of aviation bureaucracy. What the hell is this about?

"Can you come to the office tomorrow morning? It"s rather urgent," the voice continues, and a chill runs down my spine.

"Sure," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I"ll be there."

"Thank you, Mr. Caldwell. We"ll see you then." The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the screen, the image of Kate smiling back at me from the TV above the bar, blissfully unaware of the turbulence that"s just entered my life.

"Everything alright?" Mike asks, his brows creased with concern.

"Perfect," I lie, pocketing the phone. "Just perfect." But as I sit back down, the scotch suddenly tastes bitter, and Kate"s radiant image is now tinged with the foreboding sense of a storm on the horizon.