Page 1 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Sophia

I was going to die single and broke.

Not with a bang, not even with so much as a crackle.

Single and broke.

Those two words resounded in my head like a depressing mantra as my plane tore through a patch of rough air.

I scanned the row of passengers around me—strangers I was nearly certain would be the last people I’d see before meeting my maker.

The noisy chip-eater in the window seat beside me—it was an annoying pleasure to sit by you.

The woman in the aisle seat who fell asleep almost instantly and stayed that way the entire flight—even now, as we meet our end, I’m genuinely impressed.

To the rest of you across the aisle— Godspeed .

Despite the existential spiral, I noted that none of my fellow air travelers seemed even remotely concerned.

There was a slight chance I was overreacting, and the bumps that felt like massive potholes in the sky were completely normal.

Perhaps I wouldn’t die single, broke, and stuck working two dead-end jobs—I added that last one to the mantra for some additional self-deprecation.

If my sister Penny hadn’t relentlessly nagged me to “stop wallowing, get off my ass, and visit her in Phoenix,” insisting that I spend my 24th birthday with her, I would have stayed safely grounded in Misty Springs and avoided this incredibly long return flight home .

Penny made it impossible to say no when she bought the plane tickets and schemed with my friends to cover both of my jobs, though a couple weeks of missed tips and wages were going to sting a little.

Penny was the anti-me—five years older and wildly successful—married, kid, rewarding career, the whole shebang.

Meanwhile, I could barely afford my apartment, my only means of conveyance were my own two feet, and I struggled to remember the last time I washed this jacket.

I gave it an unsuspecting whiff as Potato Chip tilted the bag, tapping the remaining crumbs into his mouth and shaking out every last salty bit.

Sleeping Beauty still hadn’t so much as twitched. I briefly wondered if I should check if she were still breathing.

We hit another bump, forcing me to refocus on the music in my earbuds to calm down. The song shifted to one of my favorites by The Used. Something about a screaming bridge and a screeching guitar helped me feel at ease.

My thoughts shifted to Luke, my nephew, and how his nose turned up when I let him listen to my “yelly music.”

After critiquing my music at dinner a few nights ago, he leaned in at the table and whispered, “Momma says you need a new boyfriend. I think you should date Batman.”

Mashed potatoes nearly shot out of my nose at the comment.

No doubt the dinner-table conversations between my sister and her husband, David, were stimulating enough that Luke overheard more about my love life—or lack thereof—than any four-year-old should.

While true, it hadn’t been an easy few months for me. I wasn’t miserable—I was too busy keeping my head above water to find time to be miserable.

Though treading water was getting exhausting, and some days, it felt like I was slipping under. Plus, the restaurant I worked at was bound to notice the ketchup packets I’d been pilfering sooner or later.

But I was adjusting to life after Landon. Struggling alone was better than struggling with him.

The woman in the aisle seat next to me was still snoozing away, and while I was impressed by her ability to sleep so soundly, I was also slightly aggravated. She had been my barrier to the tiny airplane bathroom and sweet relief.

Penny often called me a “toxic doormat.”

I disagree. I think I’m just considerate.

But as I sat there—squirming, suffering, saying nothing—I started to wonder if Penny had a point.

I focused on the next song to distract me and took a slow, calming breath as my mind raced.

Has a bladder ever actually exploded from being too full?

Is it toxic to be considerate?

Is that why Landon cheated? Because I was a doormat?

Am I a big enough doormat that I’d eventually take him back?

A loud ding and the flickering of overhead lights pulled me from my disaster spiral—or, as my friends call it, my dizzy spell.

I often fell victim to those, a million thoughts rushing in at once, opening a barrage of floodgates where scenarios and regrets spilled out, leaving me drowning in “what-ifs” and “how-comes.”

The noise also caused enough ruckus to rouse my sleeping neighbor. And when a flight attendant walked by, I saw my opportunity.

“Excuse me, miss.” I interrupted the attendant mid-stride. “Do I have time to use the restroom before we land?” I asked, more as a way to avoid asking my row-mate to move.

Request by proxy—a technique I must have picked up in Doormat 101 .

“Of course. Please make it quick, though, hun. We’re preparing to land,” the flight attendant offered as she moved down the aisle, picking up trash and asking people to put their tray tables up.

As planned, the lady in the aisle seat overheard my query and stood to let me through. I thanked her quickly and made it to the bathroom just in time.

After washing my hands, I checked my reflection in the harsh light of the tiny airplane bathroom.

I tightened my low ponytail, the faint curls from last night’s dinner with my sister still clinging to the ends of my hair.

The bright sun and the chlorine from Penny’s pool had lightened my caramel strands, giving them a few golden highlights.

My skin had a soft glow from the long days of constant southwestern sunshine, and my blue eyes looked brighter and more rested .

Maybe Penny was right. I did need this trip.

***

After landing, I strolled through the terminal, my tennis shoes squeaking with every reluctant step across the polished floor.

My black leggings were comfortable this morning, but now they were begging to be peeled off.

White proved to be a poor shirt choice—my tank hadn’t recovered from the coffee incident mid-turbulence.

The stains were mostly hidden under my jacket, which had taken an equal hit but was dark enough to fake clean.

Something teal caught my eye at a small stand—a vibrant book cover that showed a black dress crumpled beside a spilled martini glass. The author’s name, Monica McKenzie, was embossed in gold letters across the bottom.

The cover screamed romance, a genre that lately felt more mocking than comforting, but I couldn’t resist.

More focused on devouring words than food, I grabbed the first thing I could find from a tiny cooler inside the stand, along with a bottle of water.

I settled in at my gate, peeling back the plastic from my hastily chosen wrap, and I took a hesitant bite. The rubbery chicken fought back, but I pushed through, forcing down a timid swallow.

I regretted my decision—one of many regrettable decisions—as I hungrily took another questionable bite, allowing my gaze to drift to the bustling crowd moving through the terminal.

I couldn’t wait to crack open my new book, but I didn’t want to get whatever cloudy white sauce was leaking down my hand on it, so I turned to people-watching instead.

A man talking loudly on his phone caught my attention. He looked roughly in his mid-forties, wearing a tan trench coat, holding a briefcase, and pulling a tiny roller bag behind him.

I created a game in my mind, inventing a fake biography for him, where I decided he looked inconspicuous enough to be a master undercover spy. However, due to his inability to control the volume of his voice, he failed spy school and was now a traveling salesman.

Next, I watched a woman with glasses and a too-large hoodie taking slow, aimless steps, passing a group of flight attendants and a couple of pilots .

I imagined her feeling defeated after her canceled flight and hopelessly stuck in the airport. That is, until a chance encounter at Margaritaville outside gate 23 proved to be the meet-cute of a lifetime. Her story would eventually become a Hallmark movie called Meet Cute at Gate 23 .

If only real life worked that way.

I turned my phone off airplane mode and quickly let Penny and David know I had made it to JFK. A flurry of texts buzzed through, but I found myself unable to focus on them, as a demanding figure caught my attention.

The newest character to enter my made-up game was pacing near a window, wearing a light gray suit, and talking on the phone like he was furiously trying to reason with a scammer.

The phone obscured half his face, but what I could see was… distracting. Broad shoulders, long legs, and a suit tailored so precisely it might’ve been sewn straight onto him. Every tense word he muttered made the fabric shift, flexing with muscles that clearly had no business being confined.

I tried to assign him a fake backstory like I’d done with the others—maybe a fed-up CEO, maybe a hitman with a heart of gold—but my brain changed course halfway through. Instead of a fake name or a dramatic past, all I could picture were very real, very vivid scenarios.

This dry spell was really starting to mess with me.

My eyes stayed locked on him as he continued to pace with a controlled urgency, like he was trying not to snap. His midnight-black hair towered above the crowd of travelers as they bounded through the terminal around him.

I finally remembered I had a chewy, gritty bite of chicken in my mouth and forced it down my throat, sighing at my own antics. Pining after a stranger wouldn’t help me get my life back together. I needed something bigger—something cosmic—to get my derailed train back on track.

My sad excuse for dinner wasn’t cutting it, so I turned my attention back to the only thing that might satisfy me—Gray Suit.

He turned, slowly, deliberately, as if he could feel the weight of my stare. His phone was gone now, no longer shielding him, and for the first time, I had a full view of his face .

But it was his eyes that captured my attention most—deep-set, piercing, and unmistakably amber, like whiskey through sunlight. Even from across the gate area, I could tell the color was vivid, almost otherworldly, like the cosmic missive I just asked the universe for was blazing across his irises.

And they were staring right into mine.