He’s tall. Broad through the shoulders. Silver hair, very short to show off his bone structure. The lines around his dark brown eyes look earned rather than cosmetic, as if he’s lived enough to justify them. There’s nothing flashy about him. Just a nice ivory cable-knit sweater and jeans.
“Did I overhear that her seat was booked out from under her?”
“It’s a busy flight, sir—with the incoming storm, everyone is scrambling to get to Boston?—”
“As am I,” he says with a friendly smile. “Seems they’re shutting down the smaller runways, so I have to check in here for my plane.”
She swallows. “I’ll be right with you, mister?—”
“Dr. Ronan Callahan.” He turns to me. “And I don’t mean to interrupt, but if you need to get to Boston, there’s room on my plane for another. If you don’t mind a ride with a stranger, that is.”
I half expect this to be a joke. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, aye. I was not looking forward to a lonesome flight, and it wouldn’t be right to leave a woman in need.”
“Um, yeah, that’d be great.” I can hardly believe my luck, but I’m in the right place at the right time, I guess.
“Splendid. Your name?”
“Sage Henley,” I say as I shake his hand. His practically engulfs mine, and I get the scale of him when we’re this close. Easily six-four.
“Pleasure to meet you, Sage.” He turns to the agent. “I’m sure you can refund the ticket she’ll never need to use.”
“Let me see what I can do.” The agent types furiously until she says, “Your ticket will be refunded, and you will be compensated for the inconvenience. Dr. Callahan, I have you checked in for your Boston flight, and your pilot should be arriving shortly. Again, we’re so sorry.”
Considering the upgrade, I feel like I should be thanking her. “I appreciate your help.”
A moment later, the pilot from Ronan’s plane arrives. The man has an attitude about getting bumped onto the bigger runways. Bad luck, he calls it. But it’s only minutes before we’re taken to a shiny private plane, Boston-bound.
As I clip my seat belt in the plush leather seat across from Ronan, I’m not sure what to think about any of this. “I still can’t believe I’m on a private jet.”
He smiles. “First time?” His accent settles into me a second later—Irish, but tempered. Smooth rather than loud. As in, nothing like all the people in that crazy town.
“Yes. This is only my second trip anywhere on a plane, actually. My first time out of the US too.”
“I hope you had a good time.”
The laugh that pops out of me is a bitter thing. “I did at the start. And now, possibly at the end. So, could be worse, I guess.”
“The middle part, not so good?”
“You could say that.”
“Boston is home?” he asks.
“For now. You?”
He nods. “For many years now.” He studies me, not in the scanning way Connor used to—calculating angles and lighting—but with actual attention. “You have the look,” he says calmly, “of someone who expected celebration and received disappointment.”
I blink. Then I laugh, surprised out of myself. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’d say something mysterious like, ‘The Irish are known for their intuition,’ or something equally pretentious, but the truth is in the eyeliner. Looks like it belongs to last night.”
Whatever his deal is, the man makes me smile. Been a while since any man did that. “I didn’t bother taking it off last night. Didn’t bother doing my hair, hence the rat’s nest?—”
“I find that rather lovely, actually.”
I stare at him, waiting for a joke. Nothing comes. “You’re serious?”