Page 3 of The Best Bad Decision

two

Amie

“Yep. Yeah, I know.I gotta go.” I sigh, pausing to hear the response on the other end of the line. “I love you. Kiss Maisy for me.”

I stuff my phone into my bag and juggle a fist full of paperwork, along with a heavy stack of wheeled luggage as I hurry down a long corridor, heels clacking on the hard, tiled floor.Of coursethe briefing room they’ve sent me to is the one furthest from the desk. Andof coursethey called me exactly as the briefing started, meaning I have to hustle to make it. My standby shift lasted three whole minutes before I got a call to send me to Santiago.

It’s not that I don’t love Santiago. It’s my favourite city in the world, and four years ago, it was my top bid every single month. I lived for the mountain views and the cute little Mexican restaurant opposite the hotel. I loved the food, the culture, the language. I willingly spent all of my time in Latin America, from Chile to Colombia, Peru to Ecuador—as a polyglot who spent a year living in Madrid, Hispanic culture has always been close to my heart.

But things are different now.Everythingis different now.

My life revolves not just around me, but around my little girl, the tiny whirlwind who bulldozed her way into my life three years ago andwho dominates my every thought, my every heartbeat. A flight from London to Santiago is long, and because of that, the layover is long, too. And a long flight and long layover means more time away from my daughter. It means more reliance on my family and friends to take care of her—to do the job that’s mine. Right now, she’s with my mum, fast asleep after a bedtime story and a few tears. I read the story from my tablet in my car before reporting to the airport, and I shed a few tears of my own after I hung up. I miss her already.

I love meeting people and being a part of their journey. I love making their trip special—even if they’re not travelling for the happiest of reasons. I love that I get to do all of that and see the world, too. I love my job. But being away from Maisy is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

This is going to be a long five days.

three

Cam

Welcome back to Chile.

A turbulent approach followed by three laps of the holding pattern set us back from our scheduled arrival time. As a consequence—or maybe as punishment—we missed the sweet spot, and now traffic between the airport and the hotel is atrocious. And I’m wrecked. The bus creeps forward a few more feet and I slam my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes and trying to nap. But it’s no use. The engine makes the most unholy screeching sound with every gear change, the vibration rumbling through the floor beneath my feet, and my noise-cancelling headphones are in my bag in the cargo compartment below my seat.

Rookie error.

I resign myself to staying awake and gaze out the window instead, taking in the snow-capped mountain vista visible from just about everywhere in the city. I’m beyond exhausted, but God, I love this place.

Finally, after just over an hour on the road, I drag my weary body into the hotel lobby, inhaling the standard hotel scent of fresh linen mixed with something light and floral. The high ceilings and light tiled floor give the space an open, airy feel, and the brightness burns my eyes as I receive my room key and wait for the rest of the crew to check in. Oncethey’re done and on their way to their rooms, I step up to the desk again to request a copy of room assignments and sign some paperwork. As the pilot in command, final authority on the trip rests with me. Any changes to our schedule have to go through me first, and being able to contact my crew in the event of last-minute changes is essential. I stuff the paperwork into the briefcase hanging off the front of my suitcase, thenfinallyhead towards my bed.

I push my luggage forward with the toe of my boot, reaching out an arm to prevent the elevator doors from closing before I can jump in. That was one hell of a flight—a long day and even longer night—fraught with poor weather conditions as we crossed from northern to southern hemisphere.

Flying through the night is rough, and so is flying through weather systems. Flying throughweather systems at night? Let’s just say that right now, I’m approximately ninety seconds from falling asleep standing up. I want nothing more than to reach my hotel room, take a hot shower, and fall into bed for a few hours. The local time is only 9:00 am, but I’ve been flying since midnight, and I was awake for a frustratingly long time before that.

A woman crouches in the corner of the elevator. She has her back to me and her hair is in a messy ponytail, secured by a shiny purple scrunchie. She adjusts her short socks and reties both shoelaces in turn. Her sinfully tight leggings highlight the ripple of her muscles as she moves.

God, those curves are perfect.

As quick as the naughty thoughts enter my head, they leave, causing me to stumble over my suitcase. I trip into the elevator, my suitcaserunning into the back of the woman’s legs.Fuck. Talk about making an entrance.

“Disculpe, lo siento,”I murmur, silently cursing myself. It takes everything in me to even get the words out of my mouth, let alone to find them in my second language. Is this what a fugue state feels like? I’m not even sure I can feel my own face right now. Even breathing in and out feels like a struggle. I’m so far beyond tired, but good God, this woman is gorgeous—I know that much without even seeing her face yet. She has the most incredible silhouette with perfectly proportional curves in all the right places. I haven’t thought about another woman for years, but something about this morning—the jet lag, exhaustion, clumsiness, this woman’s hips and ass so beautifully hugged by these leggings—has me thinking with my other head.

“Ah, no pasa nada,”she responds as she turns to face me. It’s her accent that strikes me first, like an elephant kick to the balls. I look up and in a split second, my brain registers her face. The elevator doors close, trapping us together in close proximity. I see her eyes widen and I feel her breathing quicken, and from the perfectOof her lips, I know she’s having the same reaction to my face as I am to hers.

Fuck, she’s stunning. I remember thinking she was beautiful then, but now… fuck me. Now, she’s truly entered her goddess era. I can’t tear my eyes away. If looking at her is how I die, then at least it’s a hell of a way to go.

For a fraction of a second, I wonder if she’s managed to forget that night and erase my voice from her memory, because I sure as hell haven’t managed to erase it. Or her. No matter how hard I’ve tried. She responded so immediately, so automatically, like the sound of my voice didn’t affect her at all. Like she didn’t even recognize it. But my rationalbrain kicks in quickly enough, just in time for her emotional walls to activate. I can almost see the bombproof doors slam closed in her eyes.

I open my mouth just to close it again. What comes out of my mouth next might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever said in my life.

“You changed your hair,” I blurt, immediately kicking myself.

Did I sayrationalbrain? I meantfucking assholebrain.

Briefly, a half-smirk quirks the corner of her mouth, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. I let my eyes rove up and down her body shamelessly. Her once dark chocolate curls have been lightened and smoothed into rich, chestnut waves. Where it had once hung almost to her waist, her ponytail now ends at the base of her skull, just grazing the high collar of her tank top.

It suits her. My trouser-brain is well and truly awake now, despite the rest of me being ready to fall asleep on my feet. I close my right hand into a fist, squeezing my fingernails into my palm to stop myself from reaching out. I can’t trust myself. I’m itching to wrap those soft, chestnut strands around my fingers, bring them to my nose to see if they still smell like the apple shampoo she used back then.

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