Brandon Ford
The private lounge was half-empty at this hour...just a few business types nursing drinks and scrolling phones.
How pathetic.
There was soft jazz that played low. I kept my mind focused on what I wanted. I ordered two black coffees and carried them to the corner booth where Tamara had already claimed the seat facing the windows.
She looked up when I slid one cup in front of her. Her hands were steadier now, but her eyes still carried that raw edge.
“Thanks,” she muttered, wrapping her fingers around the mug like it was heat she needed more than caffeine.
I sat across from her, took one sip but even though it burned my tongue. I didn’t care.
“We’re on the same flight,” I said. “Same goal. Might as well make it official.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Official how?”
“No half
