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Once he leaves, I look at the schedule again. Four evenings remain open. I leave them that way.

***

Two mornings later, I’m already aboard the jet with three members of the London team when Blaire arrives at the airfield.

We’re finishing a short preflight discussion at the conference table near the front of the cabin when she comes up the steps. She is wearing a navy skirt suit with a cream blouse beneath the jacket, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Her heels sharpen the line of her legs, and I have to drag my attention back to the figures in front of me before anyone notices how long I’ve been looking.

Blaire greets the group, apologizes for being the last aboard, and takes one of the aisle-side club seats directly across from mine. A younger analyst from the London office is seated beside her toward the window, while one of Voss’s associates occupies the seat beside me.

The arrangement puts Blaire only a few feet away. Close enough that I catch her perfume when she settles in. Close enough that I can see the smooth line of her crossed legs beneath the edge of the skirt. Far enough that I cannot touch her.

The aircraft levels out over the English Channel while the work conversation continues. Blaire reviews one of the Geneva collection summaries with the analyst beside her, answering his questions easily and pointing out where the London records overlap with the Geneva holdings.

I keep one eye on my briefing packet. The other keeps finding her. The analyst says something that makes her laugh, and she turns toward him with an easy smile. I know there is nothing in it, but irritation moves through me anyway. It is brief. I shut it down before it has anywhere to go.

By the time the initial debrief finishes, the analyst unbuckles and moves to the conference table with his laptop. Voss’s associate does the same, leaving Blaire and me in the facing aisle seats while the others work farther forward.

The cabin grows quieter. Blaire leans back into the headrest and closes her eyes. I watch her for a moment. Her posture softens when she is tired. One hand rests loosely over her lap while the other falls against the armrest, and without the usual concentration in her expression she looks younger, softer, less guarded.

My attention drops to her legs again. I know how they feel wrapped around me. The memory lands hard enough that I shift slightly in my seat and look down at the report in my hands.

When I glance back, Blaire’s eyes are open. She catches me looking.

“Enjoying the view?” she asks quietly.

I keep my voice low. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“I was resting,” she replies.

“You looked asleep.”

Blaire’s mouth curves. “You were still staring.”

I glance toward the front of the cabin, where the others remain occupied with their laptops and papers, then look back at her.

“Lower your voice,” I say.

Her smile deepens. She turns slightly toward the window, but not before giving me one last look. I force my attention back to the report, but the words on the page have stopped mattering. By the time the pilot announces our descent into Geneva, I’m already counting the hours until we’re alone.

When we clear the airport, the group divides between two cars. Voss’s people take the first with most of the luggage and head directly toward the Geneva office. Blaire and I take the second car to the hotel so she can get settled before joining us there.

The driver pulls away from the terminal, and for the first time since London, we are alone.

Blaire leans back against the seat and looks over at me.

“That was painless.”

“The flight?”

“The entire morning,” she replies.

“I was expecting at least one complication.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m realistic.”

I smile. “Give it time.”