Page 29 of Dream Chaser

She mumbled something incoherent, then blinked, straightening in her seat. “Sorry.” She hid a yawn behind her palm.

“Don’t apologize. We’re about to land.”

The corners of her lips turned down. “Okay.”

I closed my laptop and slid it into its bag. I’d tried to work, but focusing was significantly harder than usual. Most people would be happy to be home. Why wasn’t she?

“My car is at the airport,” I told her. “I’ll take you home. It’s already late.”

She shook her head. “No. You don’t need to. Someone’s picking me up.”

Probably someone whose last name was Marshall. But if she had a husband, why hadn’t she told me?

Fuck. It was none of my business. Her marital status didn’t concern me.

I rubbed my jaw as if it could ease the frustration gripping me for reasons I didn’t understand.

The captain’s voice filled the cabin. Fifteen minutes later, we touched down in Emerport.

“Thank you,” Nova said as we stood waiting for our luggage in baggage claim.

I yanked my suitcase off the carousel. “For what?”

Her cheeks flushed. “The trip. I loved Barcelona.”

“You’ll probably get sick of flying by the end of the season.” I loved this part of my job, but there was no one waiting for me at home. Was anyone waiting for her?

That Marshall guy, most likely.

Nova’s eyes widened. Then it hit me—I said end of the season, but I hadn’t voiced my decision to hire her permanently yet, even though it was a done deal in my mind.

Her duffle appeared on the belt. I grabbed it, and Nova took it from my hands immediately.

“See you tomorrow, Alejandro.”

“Night, Nova,” I said, but she’d already turned and hurried toward the terminal exit as if she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

***

The quiet in my apartment had never bothered me as much as it did tonight. I turned on the TV for background noise, poured a glass of whiskey, and settled on the couch with my laptop to polish a pitch deck for an energy drink brand.

NitroFlow had the potential to become one of Asher’s biggest sponsors if I did my job well.

But no matter how hard I tried to focus on the slides, my attention kept drifting to the last few days in Barcelona. To Nova. And to the possible husband she hadn’t wanted me to see. Why else would she have bolted from baggage claim?

Before I could stop myself, I was typing Millford in the search bar.

Images of a small town filled the screen—a quaint square with a fountain, a brick courthouse.

Marshall, Millford, I typed.

An article appeared. Young Leader with Brilliant Ideas: Preston Marshall Runs for Mayor of Millford.

I clicked on the link. The photograph on top showed a blond guy in a suit, standing in front of the courthouse with a few other men by his side. His smile was typical of a politician—unnaturally wide, undoubtedly fake.

I scrolled, then stopped. Nova was there, standing off to the side as if hiding, a folder clutched to her chest.

I read the article, an uncomfortable pressure squeezing my lungs.