IT’S EERILY QUIET IN THE AIRPORT, THE LIGHTS DIMMED TO a soft glow. We’ve walked the entire terminal, read every card detailing the area’s history, and admired every photo of Vancouver from over a century ago. Now, we’vee across a special, limited-time disy of tiny Disney figurines.

    “Oh, look at this Minnie Mouse!” I point at the ss. “She’s doing yoga.”

    Bashes close, his thick shoulder brushing against mine as he bends at the hips to inspect the one I’m referring to. The unexpected contact makes my heart skip a beat.

    “I think she’s just sitting cross-legged.”

    The low gravel of his voice doesn’t help my heart rate either, and I realize that, for being an absolute stranger, I like him far more than I have any right to.

    “No, she’s in Seated Pose or Easy Pose,” I say with a roll of my eyes, even though I’m amused. His surliness doesn’t put me off. Strangely, it charms me. “Like we just were.”

    “First, that pose wasn’t easy. I think I dislocated my hip.” I try not to smirk. I did sneak a peek at him all folded up, looking stiff as hell. The man is strung tight. “Second, these figurines are probably as old as me. I promise you no one was making figurines of Minnie Mouse doing yoga back then.”

    I give a solemn nod, still staring ahead at yoga Minnie. “Right. In the olden days.”

    That gets me a snort. “Something like that.”

    “How old are you, then? Like, do you just look phenomenal for someone born in 1928? Because the sign says that’s when they were created.”

    His beleaguered sigh as he straightens has me mping my lips down tight to cover my amusement. I turn to face him, watching his eyes scan my face. He looks at me with such intensity that I almost squirm under his attention.

    “I’m thirty-nine.”

    He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, as though going through the motions of acting casual when facing each other in this deserted hallway feels… not casual at all.

    “Well, color me relieved. If you were born in 1928, you’d be altogether too old for me.”

    He doesn’t react to the quip. Instead, he just keeps staring me down.

    “How old are you, Gwen?” His dark eyes spark, and the question drips with—I don’t know what to call it. Promise? Knowing? He has to know I’m younger, but I’m also not so young that I’m afraid to take him by the hand and drag him out of the bar just to get him alone.

    So I don’t slink away. I just tilt my head and let my eyes flit down to the grim line of his mouth. “I’m twenty-seven, Bash.”

    He says nothing.

    I swear I can see the gears turning in his head, but I don’t want him to use this as a reason to leave me tonight. I’m enjoying hispany too much.

    So I forge ahead before he can overthink it. “d we cleared that up. Let’s go.” I take his hand again and turn away as I do. His arm is rigid, and he resists, but a quick nce over my shoulder has him softening.

    And following.

    “Aren’t you tired?” he asks, not dropping my hand this time.

    “Sure.” I shrug. “But tired is kind of rtive. I have been more tired. And there are worse things to be than tired. I’ll let my body rest tomorrow. Tonight, we make memories.”

    “Like debating whether Minnie Mouse does yoga?”

    My eyestch on to the moving sidewalk before us. It’s going the wrong direction for the way we’re headed. But I don’t let that deter me. I hop on anyway, the movement constantly pushing me back toward him.

    “No. Like drinking bad margaritas, meditating in Terminal B, and racing on the moving walkway.”

    “Have you never walked on one of those bef—”

    I turn so I’m walking in reverse, facing him, and grin. “It’s just an added challenge.”

    He stops, those thick, dark brows drawing together. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

    I drop my tote bag on the ground beside me and lift a hand to my ear. “Sorry, what was that? Did you say that you’re scared?”

    “Gwen.”

    “Don’t Gwen me.”

    A dimple on his right cheek pops up. “Gwenyth?”

    “Nope.” I continue taking slow steps back toward the conveyor.

    “Gwendolyn?”

    I wink at him. “Nope. Sorry, that’s first-date information.”

    He blinks. And blinks again. He looks so floored by what I’ve just said, I can’t keep myself from smiling.

    I’m about to turn from him, ready to face the walkway, but his words bring me up short.

    “What are we calling tonight, then?”

    Blood rushes in my ears. I expected him to grumble and balk at my teasing, but here he is, arms crossed, stance wide, calling me out.

    I can hear the threads of hope in his voice, which brings heat to my cheeks.

    “Oh, tonight? Tonight is just our meet-cute. It’s the night we’ll tell our kids about one day. Remember?”

    He quirks a brow, and I realize how what I just said sounds given the context. Embarrassment hits me hard and fast. If my cheeks were warm before, they’re downright boiling now. My entire face feels likeva.

    God, he must think I’m totally nuts. Maybe he already has children. I could be lusting over a perfectly happy family man.

    My eyes drop to his left hand. No wedding band.

    “Respectively,” I rify quickly, pointing a finger back and forth between us. “Our respective children. Separately.”

    His expression remains unchanged.

    Things are already awkward, so I add one more parting shot with a little shrug for good measure. “Or not.”

    His head bucks back as though I’ve hit him, and I revel in even the most subtle reaction. But not for long. Recovering quickly—and partly because I’m eager to put some space between us—I turn away and call out a rushed, “On-your-marks-get-set-go!”

    Then I turn and take off.

    For several seconds, I can only hear my own footfalls as I struggle against the opposing motion of the walkway. A small giggle spills from my lips. Because honestly, I’m being ridiculous, and I’m well aware of it.

    This stoic, almost-forty-year-old man will not want to do the equivalent of trying to go up the down esctor.

    But I don’t let that stop me.

    My arms pump as I work my way farther down. This is me. I still want to be silly sometimes. I love to explore. I like to look at the ss as half-full. Hell, I will happily make lemonade.

    I’ve worked too hard in recent years at epting and loving myself to let one random, grumpy guy in an airport make me second-guess who I am—

    My thoughtse to a screeching halt. Because I hear it. And I feel it.

    Heavy footfalls. The change in the air around me—it’s warm, and it hums as he pulls closer.

    I let out a loud, udylike guffaw when I hear his breathing behind me. “Sorry, this must be hard for someone your age,” I call back.

    And for the first time, heughs. It bursts from his throat like it’s a relief to let it go.

    It gives me the fucking giggles.

    The end of the walkway is in sight, and I’m already out of breath, butughing like this? All breathless and grinning like a loon? It takes me out. I slow down. Bash is close, and I know he’s going to pass me and win.

    But that’s okay. He kind of seems like he could use a win today.

    Ten feet from the end of the belt, I give up and drop my hands to my knees, doubling over. I prepare to eat his dust and get myughter under control.

    But he stops beside me, mimicking my position. The space is narrow enough that we end up shoulder to shoulder again. The ramp continues moving, slowly taking us backward, the oddugh spilling from our lips between heavy breaths.

    “Fuck, Gwen. You…” I peek over at him, and his eyes are trained on the belt below us as he shakes his head before settling on, “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”

    “What? To race some weird girl in the airport?”

    He chuckles, and my spine tingles. “No. To blow off some steam.”

    I nce back down and nod. “Rough day?”

    “Rough week.”

    “Those are the worst,” I reply, curious but not feelingfortable enough to ask him what happened. That seems bold, even for me.

    Bash shakes his head. “Found out I have a kid I never knew about. Met him for the first time yesterday.”

    I stop breathing for a few seconds before pushing myself upright and groaning. The heartache in his voice is downright palpable, and I feel sick for a man I barely know. “Fuck meee. And you just let me fumble around all over the ce with that awkward joke about kids?”

    Bash straightens, and I’m struck by his height. Not only does he have that heavy set to his shoulders thates from hours of manualbor, but he’s also got to be well over six feet.

    “Different things.” He shrugs, the ghost of a smile still dancing over his lips. “He’s twenty-four.”

    I blink. “Oh shit.”

    “Yeah.” He grimaces. “Oh shit.”

    “Listen, I’m no mathematician, but that means you were—”

    “Fifteen and in high school? Yeah. Haven’t seen her in decades, but I ran into her brother at a fundraiser, and he let it slip.”

    “And she never told you? That’s just…”

    Some evil bullshit is what I want to say. I’m not even living the story, and it’s a punch to the gut. But looking at his face makes it so much worse. I see it now. He’s not just tired and grumpy.

    He’s grieving.

    He sniffs and looks away. “We were both fifteen and clearly stupid. I was the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, and she was very much from the right side. It sounds like her family yed a heavy-handed role in sending her to a private boarding school. They even moved to a different city. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I showed up for ss and she was just gone. Broke my fucking heart.”

    I want to say that she’s known for twenty-four years, which is plenty of time to make it right. But I don’t. I settle on a weak “I’m so sorry.”

    His gaze slides over to mine. “What’s that saying again? When life gives you lemons?”

    I tap a finger against my lips. “Hmm, I’m not familiar with that one. The only one I know is When life gives you limes…”

    His lips turn up in a faint smile as he nudges his shoulder against mine. Sensing we’re nearing the end of our ride, we both turn to face the spot where we dropped our bags. There’s something ominous about it. It feels like we’ve been living in a happy little bubble and the moment we step off this conveyor, reality wille crashing back down on us.

    In silence, we draw nearer. And I find myself counting down.

    Three.

    Two.

    One.

    With a heavy swallow, we step onto solid ground. We reach for our bags, pulling ourselves back together after what feels like a shared moment of insanity. When I’ve righted myself, I finally look over at Bash. He’s staring at his watch. “I’ve only got about an hour,” he says.

    “Is that all?” The wordse out softer than I intend. It seems like the night went by in a sh, and a heavy weight settles in my gut over the impending cutoff.

    I don’t want tonight to be over yet.

    “Yes. Only an hour to ask for your number.”

    My eyes snap to his, red-rimmed and clearly tired. “Me ying chase on the moving walkway didn’t scare you off?”

    He shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls his phone out, hitting me with a gravelly “Not at all.”

    I feel like a teenager again—that hot, fluttery feeling unfurling in my chest because a cute boy just asked me for my number. But this is so much better because he’s a hot man. With big fucking hands and a deep fucking voice.

    “There’s no ounting for taste,” I volley, falling back on self-deprecation because there’s this little mean, vain part inside me that still feels unworthy of this kind of attention.

    You’re too big.

    You talk too much.

    Your optimism is obnoxious.

    They’re hard insecurities to shake, especially when they were nted so young, reinforced by the words I grew up hearing. But I’vee to embrace these parts of myself. Most days, I believe they are some of my best qualities. Other days, I hear my dad’s voice in my head. And I hate it.

    “Gwen. Your number.” Bash watches me carefully, phone in his hand, ready to input my contact information.

    I give my head a shake and stoping up with reasons I might not be worthy of his attention. “555-555-7699.”

    He nods along, inputting the numbers with an excruciating level of focus. The broad pad of his index finger types on the screen as he repeats the numbers back to himself.

    It’s adorable.

    “Last name?”

    I flush. Last names feel serious. And yet, there is something serious about what happened tonight. A connection. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve met a lot of people in my life but they don’t get under my skin the way Sebastian Rousseau has.

    It’s borderline unnerving. It has my sleep-deprived brain reaching for reasons why we shouldn’t get our hopes up about meeting again.

    “I’m kind of nomadic and move around a lot. I don’t have a home base.”

    It’s almost easier this way, to bow out gracefully. We could part ways and leave this one dreamy night in the past. A perfect memory, untarnished by any outside forces.

    He just shrugs, clearly not feeling the same. So sure. So direct. “I don’t care. I’ll figure it out. I want to see you again.”

    I giggle, the punch-drunk feeling of having pulled an all-nighter settling in to apany my giddiness over this entire situation.

    All I can offer him is a nod and a “Same.” Because what else does a girl say to that?

    We spend the next hour wandering the terminal, drinking coffee—the coffee shops now blessedly open—to keep ourselves from fading. He tells me about his contracting business, and I tell him about my dream of opening a yoga studio one day. All the while, I do my best to ignore the growing sense of dread in my gut.

    Eventually our clock runs out.

    He boards his flight, and as I watch him leave, I see the way he nces back over his shoulder, brows drawn low as he searches for me. A thrill races down my spine at the stoic parting wave he gives me.

    And I tell myself it’s just goodbye for now and not forever.

    Because the world works in mysterious ways, and it would never squander a meet-cute like ours.