Airport Reunion With My Ex

Marcus had been stuck at Chicago O'Hare for six fucking hours already, his connecting flight to Denver delayed into oblivion by some storm system that seemed personally out to ruin his week. The terminal bar was a fluorescent-lit purgatory of overpriced whiskey and restless strangers, but he nursed his third neat bourbon anyway, scrolling mindlessly through emails about cantilevered beams and client revisions that could wait. At thirty-two, the architect in him appreciated the soaring glass and steel of the concourse, but right now it just felt like a cage. Then he looked up.

Elena.

She stood twenty feet away at the edge of the crowd near the gate screens, fiery auburn hair tumbling over one shoulder in that same messy cascade he used to fist in both hands. Twenty-eight now, curves sharper, lips fuller, wearing a tight black travel dress that hugged her ass like it was begging to be peeled off. Six years since she’d ghosted him after that last screaming match in their shitty Brooklyn walk-up—passionate, unstable, all heat and no brakes. He’d told himself he was over it. Bullshit. The second their eyes locked across the bar, old chemistry detonated in his gut like a live wire. Her dark eyes widened, then narrowed with that wicked spark he remembered too well. She didn’t look away. Neither did he.

He set the glass down and stood, weaving through the crush of rolling bags and impatient flyers. She moved at the same time, hips swaying, closing the distance until they stopped a foot apart near an empty high-top. Up close she smelled like the same vanilla-and-smoke perfume, mixed with airport coffee and something hotter underneath.

“Marcus.” Her voice was lower, rougher. “Of all the shitty layovers in all the world.”

“Elena.” He let his gaze drag down her body, unapologetic. “Still running from me, or just the city?”