The Mysterious Mr. Hastings

"Is everything set for the merger announcement?" I asked, pacing my hotel suite. My personal assistant and bodyguard, Simon, nodded.

Simon was a massive, solid man with warm brown eyes and shoulder-length chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. We'd been friends since childhood; I trusted him with my life.

"All set, boss," he replied. "Still want to go undercover?"

"Always," I answered. "The employees are the ones who know everything." I grinned and started changing, trading my suit for jeans and a shirt. "Is my jet ready for takeoff?" I asked, swapping my wristwatch for a cheaper model. Simon gave me a skeptical look.

"Boss," he said warily, "your jet landed back home this morning with Theodore. We're flying coach in four hours."

"Right," I said, wincing as I reviewed my papers. "I hate flying."

"I know," Simon replied, "but it's a short haul-and Chris Stewart definitely can't afford a private jet."

"True," I said. "Let's move. And stop calling me boss."

"Of course, Chris," he said with a smirk.

We took a cab to the airport and waited in the terminal. Like me, Simon was dressed down in jeans and a shirt; we each carried only a backpack. Theo had already taken the rest of my luggage. People moved in a frantic blur around us; I wasn't used to the crowd. Simon handed me a glass of wine, but it didn't help-and I didn't want to drink more, despite my appreciation for a fine vintage.

When boarding began, we were among the last to get on. I took the middle seat, pinning Simon against the window.

A woman a few years younger than me-around twenty-five-appeared beside me in the aisle. She wore jeans, a blouse, and a vest, catching my eye instantly as she reached to place her carry-on in the overhead bin, revealing a slim waist. Admittedly, my eyes linger on beautiful women, and she was striking. She had feminine curves, vivid blue eyes, and long, straight chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail with a side-swept fringe. She wasn't wearing makeup, but her sun-kissed skin made her eyes pop. When she noticed me staring, she simply offered a polite smile. Her perfume drifted toward me, but at that moment, all I cared about was the impending takeoff.

"I hate flying," I muttered as the plane began to taxi. "This is why private jets are better."

"Most people would like private jets," the woman said with a smile. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a small cylindrical vial.

"Would you like one?" she asked kindly. "They're highly recommended for nervous flyers."

Simon glanced at her, took the tube, and scanned the label.

"This is exactly what you need, Chris," he said, handing me a pill and a small bottle of water.

The tension in my chest slowly began to ease. The woman produced a book from her bag.

"Thank you," I said. "I already feel better." She smiled and shifted her gaze to Simon.

"I'm sure your friend can source these for you in the future." She opened her book and began to read.

"What are you reading?" I asked, looking for a distraction.

"A mystery." She tilted the cover toward me. It was the latest release from a well-known thriller author.

"Is it any good?" I asked. I rarely had the time, but I'd always had a weakness for mysteries.

"It's a bit of a slow burn, but it picks up around the middle," she said patiently. "So yes, I'd say it's worth it."

"I'm surprised it isn't a romance novel," I said. "Most women your age lean toward those."

"Few romance books can hold my attention," she replied evenly. "I can't relate to those 'can't live with you, can't live without you' types of relationships." She let out a soft laugh.

"How about a story where a woman saves a man from a heart attack on a plane, and he repays her with dinner?" I asked with a confident smile. Coach or not, women rarely resisted that look.

"I highly doubt the man in that story was actually close to a heart attack," she countered, her eyes never leaving the page.

Simon grinned to himself and closed his eyes. I spent the rest of the flight commenting on the cabin temperature and the noise from the children a few rows up; Simon only responded with a non-committal hum.

"When do we touch down?" I asked. Simon glanced at his watch.

"Another half hour, Chris," he answered. "Nervous again?"

"No," I said. "I just hate sitting idle."

The woman pulled a granola bar from her bag and held it out to me.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked. "I'm not hungry."

"That may be," she said calmly, "but as long as you're eating, I don't have to listen to your complaining, and I can read in peace." Simon stifled a laugh. Reluctantly, I took the bar and tucked in. It was actually surprisingly good.

"We're landing," Simon noted as the woman tucked her book away and tightened her seatbelt.

The plane touched down, and the usual scramble for the exit began. The woman stepped into the aisle; Simon moved in front of me, acting as a shield, and I followed him out. I thought I heard a female voice shouting "Chris," but Simon was expert at clearing a path through the crowd. We hit the terminal and made it into the fresh air in record time.

Simon hailed a cab, and we slid in.

"Home?" Simon asked. I shook my head.

"To the temp apartment," I said, and Simon gave the driver the address. "You head home. I need to pick up a few things at the new place and grab a gift for Sonny and Jade. I was short with them before the trip; I owe them a visit."