Page 5 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

And it’s that—his voice, his steadiness, his lack of judgment—that almost undoes me completely. My stomach coils. That familiar churn of nerves, of regret, of raw, unprocessed panic. It hasn’t left me since I fled the boutique. It’s still there, twisting tighter every time I breathe.

“I was…” I stop, swallowing past the lump rising fast in my throat.

I glance away, out the window across the way, where clouds drift by lazily, so unaffected by the disaster unraveling inside me.

My eyes focus on nothing and everything at once.

A smear on the glass. The blurred outline of Dean’s reflection. Anything but him.

“I was at my final dress fitting,” I say eventually, voice brittle. “My wedding’s in two weeks.”

The words feel foreign on my tongue now. Like they don’t belong to me anymore.

“My fiancé—” My chest squeezes tight around the word. “He’s been handling everything. The venue, the guest list, the menu. Even the dress.”

I let out a bitter breath, part laugh, part sob. “I didn’t even get to pick it. His mother did. Satin and lace and… expectations. My own family wasn’t involved.”

The memory crashes back, vivid and unrelenting.

Standing on that platform, the seamstress pinning the hem while I stared at myself in the mirror.

Except I didn’t recognize the woman staring back.

I looked like a stranger in someone else’s fantasy.

A perfectly dressed mannequin in a life that wasn’t mine.

My fingers twitch in Dean’s grasp, fidgeting like I need to escape even now. I shift in my seat, pulse fluttering. My throat burns with the effort not to cry again. I already cried in the dressing room. In the Uber. In the airport. I’m out of tears. At least, I should be.

“And while I stood there trying to breathe in a dress I didn’t choose, I got a text,” I say, eyes locked on a scratch in the tray table. “From a number I didn’t recognize.”

I blink hard.

“She sent me a photo of my fiancé. With her. At their own wedding. Apparently, he’s had another family this whole time.”

My voice splinters on that last word. The truth that’s been banging against the inside of my rib cage since it hit me like a freight train hours ago.

I sniff, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet hum of the plane.

“I didn’t scream. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t even think. I just…” My eyes dart up to meet his, and the kindness there nearly breaks me all over again. “I ran. Grabbed my stuff and booked the next flight out. I didn’t even care where it was going.

“His mom didn’t even try to stop me. She just let me run out the door. Which really just left me more confused at how she was involved. How his entire family was involved.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy and still.

I pull my hand back gently, needing space, needing air. I wrap my arms around my stomach like I’m trying to hold myself together, like I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll splinter apart at the seams.

I don’t tell him about the way my heart cracked open in that boutique. How it wasn’t just the betrayal but also the realization that I hadn’t been living my own life in months. Maybe years.

I don’t tell him about the shame or the anger that gnawed at my chest the entire ride to the airport. The humiliation of realizing I was never the main character in my own story. Just a supporting actress in his.

But something in Dean’s presence makes me want to. Makes the words itch beneath my skin.

“I don’t usually…” My voice is smaller now. “I don’t fall apart like this.”

Dean nods slowly like he understands. Like he knows more is beneath the surface, and he’s willing to wait me out. And somehow, that makes it easier to keep going.

“I think I’ve been pretending for so long, I forgot what it felt like to breathe for myself,” I whisper. “To do something reckless. Or stupid. Or free.”

And maybe that’s what this is—freedom. Messy, terrifying, unplanned freedom.

I glance at Dean, half expecting judgment, pity, or maybe even discomfort. But there’s none of that. Just quiet steadiness. Like he sees all of it, all of me , and he’s not running.

Dean’s eyes soften as he reaches for my hand again. Like he needs the tether as much as I do. The feel of his thumb brushing back and forth against my knuckle soothes the rising anger that builds as I recall what led me to this point.

“What do you think you’re going to do next?”

Isn’t that the most terrifying question to consider? I have no idea what I’m doing next. Pretty certain in the midst of the mayhem I caused, I won’t have a job waiting for me. Or the luxury apartment I shared with my now ex.

After this spur-of-the-moment trip, I am going to be broke and homeless. And there is no way I’m crawling back to my parents' home. At least not right away.

Suddenly, a warmth spreads across my chin and jaw. Dean’s strong fingers caress my skin.

“Why the frown?”

Jerking my head from his hold, I turn my attention back to the movie screen. No need to share more of my upended life with this guy who looks like he walked out of a magazine spread.

“No reason.”

“Lila,” he sighs.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Mumbling under his breath, I swear I hear him say, “Feels like I should.”

My head jerks forward, hard enough to snap me out of sleep with a soft gasp.

I blink, confused and momentarily lost in the muted hum of the plane and the low flicker of cabin lights.

My neck aches. My body feels folded in on itself, stiff from the cramped seat and the weight of a day I haven’t fully processed.

I must’ve dozed off. God knows how. But the panic is already creeping back in with racing thoughts, the prick of embarrassment in my cheeks.

Then I feel him. Dean.

His hand is gentle as it touches my arm, then shifts to cradle the back of my head. Nothing about the motion is invasive. It’s just quiet assurance, something I wasn’t expecting from a stranger. He guides me softly until my head comes to rest against his shoulder, solid and warm.

“Rest,” he murmurs, low and steady like the world hasn’t fallen apart today. “You can lean on me.”

And somehow, I believe him.

So I do. I let go of the tension, the spinning thoughts, the part of me still waiting to shatter.

His shoulder is strong beneath me, steady like he was built for moments like this.

His scent wraps around me, clean and woodsy with a hint of something I can’t name but already know I’ll crave later. He smells like warmth. Like safety.

My muscles melt before I can stop them. The exhaustion I’ve been pushing down all day comes back with full force, and I let it take me. Let him hold just this one piece of me, like it’s no trouble at all.

And just before the weight of sleep pulls me under again, I think, just barely, I feel the softest press of lips against the top of my head.

But maybe I’m dreaming.

God, I hope I’m not.

During the rest of the flight, we remained quiet except for some small bits of conversation and a few chuckles we shared during another movie.

He tells me how he’s traveling to help his friend scope out a new location for his hotels and how he’s hoping to spend a few days relaxing.

When the movie ends, Dean silently switches to the earlier nixed film, the corner of his mouth tilting upward when he notices my reluctant smile. Damn smug bastard.

Before long, the pilot announces the plane's upcoming descent into Edinburgh Airport. My body immediately tenses, fingers clenching around the rough material of my tulle skirt. The plane bumps mid-air as it hits a rough patch of turbulence, our first on the long flight. Just as my eyes are about to clench shut, I hear the sudden intake of air beside me. My attention diverts from our possible plummet to death to Dean’s face.

His tanned skin is now painted in white, and the muscles in his taut chest are frozen solid as he holds his breath.

“Dean,” I whisper just as the plane rolls again, my stomach mimicking the movement. When he doesn’t budge, I repeat his name. “Dean, look at me,” I urge.

Finally, he turns his face toward mine as it rests against the back of the seat, tilted toward the ceiling. For the first time, I can make out his eyes from beneath the brim of his hat. They’re wide, with pupils no more than tiny black dots in the center of his brown irises.

A third time, the plane rolls, and I immediately reach out to grip his hand, clutching at the denim covering his legs. His nails claw at the material, turning white at their attempt.

My fingers slip through his, and I watch in amazement as Dean’s chest moves, releasing the breath he held so deeply.

He holds me the same way I had him during the takeoff—like I was his anchor.

After what feels like a lifetime, the plane jerks as the landing gear meets asphalt, and the plane’s speed begins to decrease. Despite this, Dean doesn’t release my fingers. Instead, his gaze drops to our clutched hands, and his fingers loosen slightly as he adjusts his grip.

“Thank you,” he whispers as the plane lurches to a stop and the other passengers start to rise, something I never really understood.

Eventually, it’s our turn to exit the plane, and I’m fascinated to find that Dean doesn’t linger any longer than I do.

“No bags?” I ask as we travel across the passenger boarding bridge.

“Nope. I have my bags waiting for me.”

I try to ignore the looks of curiosity from the other passengers as I enter the airport, but cinch Dean’s jacket closer around my chest. It’s only now that I realize what a state I must appear. Full-length wedding gown and a windbreaker.

“I should probably grab something from one of these stores before I go any farther.”

My companion peers over his broad shoulder at the boutique across the way. The store boasts mostly scarves and jackets, but I notice a few pairs of pants over in the corner.