I wait in line at the airport with a small bag that bulges at the seams. The woman in front of me gives it a curious glance, then does a double take when she sees I’m wearing a thin white dress with a bikini beneath. She makes an indelicate snort of disapproval through her nose and turns away.

Let her huff and puff. I’m going on this freaking vacation because I’ve earned it.I’m not even going to stop at a hotel before I go to the beach when I get there, even if I have to march straight off the plane by foot to the nearest ocean. So yes, cranky lady, I am wearing my bathing suit at the airport. Get over it.

For all my tough internal talk, her look still makes me feel a little self-conscious. I hug the bag a little tighter to my chest before unzipping a pocket on the side and pulling a crumpled post-card free. I look at it for probably the millionth time. It shows a scene of water so perfectly blue it’s hard to tell where the sky ends, a rocky outcropping that makes a small cove where the water is clear enough to show the yellow sand beneath.

Blue skies and sandy beaches. That’s what I need. Anything to get me a breather from the day-to-day grind of waking up for work, sitting at my desk for nine hours while I try to cling to what’s left of my sanity, then feeling like my evening goes by in the blink of an eye.

I push the picture back down, closing my eyes and biting my lip. Bermuda. It has taken me months and months to save the money for the plane ticket and the place I’m staying at, not to mention the strings I had to pull to actually get a week off. It’s all going to be worth it. Every second of it.

Someone bumps me from behind, knocking me off balance so I nearly drop my bag.

“Line’s moving,” says a man with a sweaty brow and beady black eyes.

I clear my throat, shuffling forward to take my place in front of the attendant, who asks to see my ticket.

She’s a young girl, maybe in her mid twenties with a pixie haircut and upturned nose. She smacks her gum idly as she glances at my ticket, then the computer screen, and once more at my ticket.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

She makes an attempt at looking regretful, but falls just short. “Looks like your flight was canceled. Next one is tomorrow afternoon, but that flight is overbooked, so you’d have to upgrade your to first-class. It’d be about eight hundred dollars for the upgrade.”

Something deep inside me breaks. I feel it snap like an old, dry twig. A frigid cold spreads from the spot, numbing my stomach and then my whole chest. Eight hundred dollars. More than twice what I had to save for the ticket in the first place. Almost as much as it’s going to cost to stay for the entire week.

“There has to be some other way,” I say, trying not to let the panic I feel reach my voice. My hand on the counter shakes violently so I pull it back, gripping my bag to keep it still. “Please,” I say.

She licks her lips and looks at the computer again. I watch her fingers tap away and her mouth press together in concentration. “Well, there will be another flight in three days. I could have your ticket transferred to that flight for no cost.”

“My vacation time is already arranged through work, I can’t change it now,” I say. “It has to be today. Tomorrow at the latest. I wouldn’t have time to--it just has to be by tomorrow.”

Someone behind me makes an annoyed sound. I glance over my shoulder to see the guy with the beady eyes who bumped me. His arms are crossed and he’s tapping his foot dramatically. I ignore him, but the girl helping me glances at him and tenses a little.

“Ma’am,” she says a little more curtly. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but there’s nothing else I can do. Do you want me to upgrade you to first-class for tomorrow or transfer your ticket?”

“No,” I say. “I want a refund.” The words come out of me slowly and painfully. It’s not the end of the world, though. I can just wait a few more months until another opportunity to get time off comes. I’m sure I can get my deposit back from the hotel.

The girl makes an obnoxiously placating face. “We unfortunately don’t offer refunds in this case.”

“This case?” I say, feeling my temper start to falter.

The man behind me clears his throat again.

“Need a cough drop, asshole?” I snap, turning at him with a look on my face that must be terrifying, because he flinches back.

The girl’s eyes are wide now and her body is rigid. I know I’ll feel guilty for this later, but right now I just feel the crushing disappointment numbing me to everything, even the stupidity of taking my anger out on this poor girl.

“You mean this case where you guys took my money weeks ago and now you’re telling me I can’t get what I paid for, but I also can’t get my money back? You mean that case?”

“There’s nothing I can do,” says the girl robotically.

I sigh, feeling all the anger drain out of me as suddenly as it came. “It’s fine. It’s not your fault,” I say. “I’ll figure something else out. Just put it on hold for now, okay?”

She nods, shifting her eyes to motion for the next in line to come to the counter.

I turn and walk away from the counter and find a bench to sit on. I curl my arms around the bag and hug it in my lap, resting my head on it like a big pillow and willing myself not to cry. There’s no point sitting here feeling sorry for myself.

Yeah, I worked my ass off for this vacation. Yeah, none of this is fair. But I’m not the kind of girl who wallows in self-pity. I just can’t seem to make myself get up yet, not now. I decide to allow myself to wallow for just a few minutes. At least taking a week off work means I have time to mope in the airport for a little while. I don’t let a single tear come, though I could cry a million in frustration and disappointment. I’m not going to cry over this. It’s just a crushed dream I spent months looking forward to. It’s only--

A deep voice draws my attention.

“Canceled?” asks the man.

My head pops up so I can see the speaker, but his back is to me. He wears a suit that looks expensive, but my eyes go straight past the material to the places where it hugs his fit body exceptionally well. Broad shoulders. Lean, athletic legs, and posture that says volumes about his confidence. His feet are wide, hands planted on the counter, and he leans in.

I listen to the girl tell him the same thing she told me, except this guy already had first-class tickets, so she tells him she can transfer his tickets over for tomorrow, no problem.

He sighs, turns away from the counter, and starts walking directly toward me.

I’ve heard the cliche before, but I think my heart actually stops when I see him coming for me. He’s tall, with the most arrestingly blue eyes I’ve ever seen. A couple days’ worth of scruff lines his crisp jawline and full lips. His hair is effortlessly pushed away from his face in a way that somehow speaks of rugged carelessness and yet polished at the same time. I’ve seen celebrities on the screen and magazines, but I’ve never seen a man so absolutely breathtaking in person before. Not even close.

He looks around the crowded benches, slowing a little as he scans for a place to sit. His eyes fall on me and I realize I’m not breathing, except right now I don’t think I could even if I tried.

The corner of his mouth pulls up so slightly I think I might be imagining it. Did he just smirk at me?

I can’t do anything but watch as this miracle of a man strides straight to the seat beside me and sits, giving me a full breath of his expensive cologne and something masculine and clean just beneath the scent. He practically towers over me, even sitting.

“Keep staring like you want to take a bite out of me and I might let you,” he says in a smooth voice with a deep, gravelly undertone. The sound alone has me pressing my legs together to suppress the growing warmth and wetness dampening my bikini.

Of all the times in my life I had to be rebellious and wear a freaking bikini with a revealing cover-up to the airport, it had to be when Mr. Model decides to strike a conversation with me? And since when does the sight, or sound, for that matter, of a guy get me wet?

“Excuse me?” I ask weakly. My body finally shivers a little, taking in the air I’ve been denying it for too long, giving me no choice but to awkwardly sit there, sucking in air like I just jogged a few laps while he watches me with a sparkle of amusement in those intense blue eyes.

“The way you’re looking at me,” he says, reaching a hand out and placing a surprisingly gentle finger at my cheek and dragging it down to my jaw. The innocent touch explodes through me like it’s electric until I feel breathless all over again. “Flushed cheeks. Slightly dilated pupils. Shortness of breath,” he notes, taking a longer-than-necessary look at my rising and falling chest. “You’re aroused,” he says simply.

I close my mouth, unable to look in his eyes. Of course I’m freaking aroused, asshole. Not that I’m going to admit that to him, not now. “I… I don’t…” I stammer, searching for any words that don’t betray how desperately I want him to put those strong hands back on me, whether that’s crazy or not.

“Your flight was canceled too. I was behind you in line,” he explains. “So we both have twenty-four hours to kill.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He waits, watching me with those eyes, those analyzing, piercing eyes that I’m suddenly sure see straight through me. I can say whatever untruths I want, but this man knows. He knows how he’s affecting me. As much as I hate to admit it, even the logical part of my brain is betraying me. After all, I do have the week off work, so it’s not like I have anywhere to be. Why pass this up--whatever this is.

“There’s a conference room,” he says, guiding my eyes with his index finger to a hallway of closed doors. “Second one on the left. It’s unlocked.”

Without another word, he stands, brushes the wrinkles from his pants, and heads toward the hallway.

I watch after him, mouth hanging open. I look around, half-expecting to see grinning faces watching because I’m part of some cruel prank. I only see bored people waiting for flights with expressionless faces lit by phone screens.

I stand, still holding my bag close to my chest. To my right, I can see the doors that lead out of the airport, back to my little red car with a dent on the fender that someone kindly left me in a parking lot while I was getting groceries. My car, that will take me back to my humdrum little hamster wheel life, where I’ll keep plugging in hour after hour so that maybe my year of work can buy me a few days of happiness. But that door is also safe. I know what happens if I walk through it. I’ll listen to the radio on the way home, maybe pick up a gallon of ice cream and some wine, and I’ll try to make the best of my week off from work, even if it’s not in Bermuda.

To my left…

That door scares the hell out of me. I hear the distant click as he pulls it closed behind him and I wonder how long he’ll wait for me. To a guy like him, casual sex probably is no big deal. He probably just wants to go through the motions, pass a little time, and then never see me again. Me though? I’ve never slept with a guy if I didn’t think there was a good chance our relationship was going somewhere, but I’ve been left dissatisfied every time. The sex has been uninspiring and the conversation equally bad.

Between guys who can’t last more than a few minutes and the ones whose idea of foreplay is digging around my vagina with their fingers like they’re looking for spare change, I haven’t had a whole lot of motivation to get back into dating lately.

The man waiting inside that conference room struck me as a profoundly different breed than any man I’ve ever been with before. The calmness and surety of his movements radiated confidence and experience. The way he read my body so clearly makes me think he’d know exactly how to satisfy me.

I realize I’ve started walking toward the exit, hands squeezing even tighter around my bag. It’s so easy. Just one step after another and all the uncertainty and fear I feel about that door to the conference room gets farther and farther away. Every step takes me closer to the comfortable, if depressingly boring, life I’m used to. I can go back to my old life and suffocate on comfort and routine just as easily as taking a few more steps. Or...

The warm air rushes against my face when the automatic doors open, but I pause at the threshold. Somehow I know if I make that final step from the airport to outside, I’ll never turn back. It could become another disappointment to add to this ruined vacation.

I put my hand on the glass beside the door before turning to take one last look toward the hallway where the man is waiting. A woman brushes past me irritably, trying to make her way outside. I watch her go. Like me, she’s probably on her way home to steal a few hours of idle entertainment before diving back into the rat race.

I suck in a deep breath and turn back toward the hallway with the conference rooms. My heart beats violently and I can’t seem to catch my breath, but I keep moving, knowing I can’t stop or my resolve will crumble.

I’m going to do this. Whatever this is, I’m going to do it.

I’m standing outside the conference room door before I know it, hand hovering over the doorknob. I feel like my knees might give out, like every nerve in my body is screaming that this is crazy and I should turn and run as fast as I can. He could be a pervert, hell, he could even be a serial killer. But as nonsensical as it is, I can’t picture it from him. Looking like he does, I can’t see why he’d need to use any tricks to get what he wants from women.

I laugh a little at myself as I stand outside the door, realizing I’m probably one of a hundred to fall into his seductive trap, but knowing doesn’t stop the pounding need to open that door.

I turn the knob and step inside.