Page 3 of Boarding Pass (Hearts Without Borders #1)

Chapter three

Jet lag is no joke.

It’s day two—well, night two. My body’s screaming for sleep, but my brain won’t stop buzzing.

After I checked in, I dined alone at a little bistro where I enjoyed a stellar meal of steak frites.

I even drank an entire bottle of wine, figuring it would help me sleep.

But, no. I lay awake all fucking night long staring at the ceiling, finally passing out around breakfast time after I rubbed one out.

When I woke up it was midafternoon. Now I’m in the twilight zone of being exhausted but also wired. For the past several hours, I’ve walked half the Marais trying to shake off this annoying restless energy.

It’s not working.

God, I’m finding it impossible to relax. It feels like I’m forgetting to do something. Years of deadlines, product launches, and running a business has messed me up. I have no idea how to chill anymore.

Which fucking sucks.

Plus, I’ve come to the realization my spur-of-the-moment decision to hop on a plane might not have been the most-well-thought-out plan. I don’t speak French. I know exactly zero people here. I’m too old for nightclubs, too restless to sit alone in a café, and bars aren’t my thing.

I’m standing there, debating whether to wander aimlessly or admit defeat and go back to the hotel when I spot it—a wine bar tucked into a quiet corner, glowing with warm, golden light.

Magnum . The name’s printed on the awning in clean, sharp lettering. Tables spill out onto the street, lively but not chaotic. Inside, it looks…perfect. Busy, but not overly crowded. Doesn’t seem pretentious.

Stepping inside, I immediately love the vibe—the perfect mix of cozy and cool. Soft chatter hums under the faint clink of glasses. The décor is quirky and eclectic—photos of Tom Selleck in full Magnum PI glory line the walls, for God’s sake. How could you go wrong?

This’ll work. At least for tonight.

I scan the room and see her .

The woman seems to be alone, elbow resting on the bar as she swirls the final bit of red wine in her glass.

She’s stunning in a undeniably effortless way.

Dark, chestnut hair is swept back in a large clip.

Loose strands brush her cheekbones. Her skin glows under the warm light, and her eyes—green, intense—flick around the room like she’s studying it.

She wears a simple black dress with a colorful scarf draped around her shoulders.

I don’t know what it is about her. It takes every ounce of self-control not to stare.

Crossing the room toward the bar, I order a glass of red wine, leaving it up to the bartender to choose for me.

I lean against the counter as I wait. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dig for something in a bag slung across the back of her stool.

She fumbles slightly, her hand brushing the stem—and suddenly, the wine tips.

It’s like slow motion. The red liquid spills across the table, dripping over the edge and pooling on the floor. She mutters something under her breath and grabs one of those tiny bar napkins, blotting furiously at the mess.

Before I can stop myself, I grab a fistful of bar napkins and step forward. “Need a hand?”

She stops for a second, like I’ve startled her. When she looks up, I notice two things: her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are sharp, sizing me up like she’s not convinced I’m actually here to help.

“No, it’s fine.” Her voice is tight but controlled. “Really, it’s nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something,” I smile as I crouch to wipe up the floor. “But hey, I shouldn’t judge. Last week, I dropped an entire iced coffee in the middle of Starbucks.”

To my surprise, she laughs softly and she seems to relax a bit. “Thanks.” She finally looks me in the eye, and holy hell. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in my life.

“You’re welcome.” I toss the wet napkins in the trash and take the seat next to her. “Do you spill drinks often or am I just the lucky guy who gets to use it as an excuse to meet you?”

Her lips twitch, and for a second, I think she might actually smile. “You caught me. It was a tactical spill.” Her dry sense of humor catches me off guard. “I figured causing a scene might summon a hero—looks like it worked.”

“Well, here I am.” I laugh heartily. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

For a moment, neither of us says anything. She studies me like she’s still deciding whether or not I’m worth talking to. I wait with baited breath, hoping for a miracle.

“Do you always rescue strangers?” Her fingernail digs at the wood on the bar top.

“Only if they have excellent taste in wine.” I gesture to the bottle of Bordeaux sitting next to her overturned glass. My cheesy line garners a genuine smile—a small one, but it’s there. I offer my hand. “Miles.”

She takes it and her grip is firm. “Sophie.”

“ Sophie ,“ I repeat. Her name rolls off my tongue. It suits her—effortless, classic, and a little intriguing .

Sophie picks up her glass and refills it, taking a small sip. Her gaze flicks back to me. “So, what brings you to Paris?”

The question feels loaded somehow. I debate giving her the short answer, but something about her makes me want to be honest.

“I needed a change,” I say finally. “I just sold my company—a gaming studio I started with my best friend. Now I’m figuring out what’s next.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly, as though she’s intrigued. “Gaming studio?”

“Hungry Llama.” I brace for the inevitable blank stare.

Instead, her lips curve into a smile. “Oh, how cool. My niece loves Puzzle Pet Paradise . She spent last Christmas trying to explain it to me.”

“Clearly, she’s a genius.” I nod solemnly. “And you should listen to her.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s warmth there. “What’s it like? Selling a business you built from scratch?”

“It’s…weird,” I admit. “I should feel excited, but mostly I feel like I’m floating. I spent so much time building the company, growing it. Running it. I forgot to think about what happens after.”

For a moment, she just watches me, her expression unreadable. “I get it.” She nods. “The in-between.”

“What about you? What brings you here?” I finish my glass of wine.

Sophie pours me another glass from her bottle, then her gaze drops. “I’m a photographer. I just finished shooting Fashion Week, now I’m taking a few weeks to…figure things out.”

“Figure what out?” I tilt my head to the side. Talking to her feels effortless. Like we’re old friends catching up.

She hesitates, and for a second, I think she’s going to brush it off. But then she sighs as her fingers trace the rim of her glass.

“Tonight I found out something pretty cool. I’ve been offered a solo exhibit.” She closes her eyes and smiles, then catches herself and resumes a reserved demeanor. “In New York this fall. It’s a big deal—huge, actually. Instead of being excited, I feel, um . Untethered.”

Her honesty surprises me. It’s refreshing. Raw. Something about her demeanor provides me with a surge of kinship. It’s strange, but also comforting.

“Hmmm. Maybe untethered is normal for people like us,” I hear myself say.

Her eyebrow spikes. “People like us ?”

“Yeah. People who create things.” My words roll off my tongue effortlessly. “We’re artists.”

My words linger in the air and I can’t help but realize I’ve never spoken my truth out loud. It’s both confusing and exhilarating. Sophie catches on because her expression thoroughly softens.

For the rest of the evening, our conversation flows easily. Like we’ve known each other our whole lives. We talk about New York and Seattle. Why we’re in Paris and about the strange pull of ambition and the toll it takes.

I tell her about how lost I am without my company and the loneliness I’m feeling because my sister is marrying my best friend.

How I have no idea what my next step is.

She confides the details of her devastating breakup and how she’s leaving in a couple days to visit her parents in Bordeaux—to complete her healing process in the care of the people who love her most.

Long ago, the hum of the bar faded into the background. It’s just the two of us now, leaning slightly toward each other, wine glasses in hand. The space between us grows smaller with every passing minute .

I can’t recall ever having a connection to someone so suddenly. So easily. Like fate guided us both to this strange little wine bar at the exact same time so we could meet.

When Magnum eventually closes, we walk slowly down Rue Beautreillis toward the Seine. Sophie points out a building where Jim Morrison, the singer of the 60s band the Doors died. Apparently it’s a famous landmark, though I’ve never heard of him.

We turn onto Quai des Célestins , falling into an easy rhythm as we continue our conversation.

On our stroll, we continue to chat about everything and nothing.

A discussion about Stranger Things turns into a story about how she navigated straddling two cultures.

I tell her about my twin sister and how difficult it was to be the quiet, shy computer nerd compared to the outgoing, opinionated beauty queen.

Sophie and I marvel at how similar our stories are. Both of us have cool careers most people only dream of—her capturing fleeting moments through a camera lens, me building a digital world pixel by pixel.

We stop at the railing for a moment. The river shimmers in the golden light of the overhead street lamps. I steal a glance as she gazes out at the water, her face serene and peaceful .

I know, with certainty, I don’t want this night to end.

“This has been…” I pause, searching for the suitable words. “I don’t know—one of those meetings you don’t ever plan for. But, uh…” I gesture vaguely behind me. “I just realized my hotel is a block away.”

She turns to face me, her lips curve up slightly. “Oh yeah?”

I kick the ground with my toe, feeling a little foolish. I hope she doesn’t think I’m a player. “I’m staying at—“

“ Cheval Blanc ,“ we both say at the exact time.

There’s a beat of silence, then she bursts out laughing. A rich, melodic sound making my chest feel lighter.

“You’re kidding.” I shake my head.

Sophie’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “What are the odds we’d booked the same five-star hotel.”

“Apparently, decent enough.” I chuckle. “I think Paris had some grand plan for us to meet.”

She tilts her head. “Or, maybe, we’re both ridiculously lucky.”

“Could be,” I admit with a smirk.

The coincidence settles between us, equal parts absurd and perfect.

And right. Oh, so right.