Two weeks after the bar meet.
Grayson let the quiet hum of the lounge settle around him, the rich amber of his scotch catching the low light as he turned a page in the document he'd been reviewing. Outside, Heathrow was a mess—flights canceled, travelers stranded, and an almost tangible frustration hanging in the air. But in here, in his secluded corner, everything was controlled. Just the way he liked it.
The door to the VIP lounge opened again, drawing his attention for a brief second. A handful of passengers walked in—some clearly business-class regulars, others lucky enough to have been upgraded due to the travel chaos.
And then, he spotted her.
She was wrapped in a light gray wool coat, the kind meant more for style than warmth, and she pulled it tighter around herself as she scanned the room. A small carry-on rested by her side, and she sighed as she adjusted the strap of her bag, pushing a few strands of dark hair out of her face.
Grayson's gaze lingered. Not because she was stunning—though, objectively, she was—but because there was something about the way she carried herself. She wasn't frantic like the other travelers, nor was she scrolling through her phone with exasperation. She simply took it all in, as if waiting for something—or someone.
And then, her gaze landed on him.
She hesitated. Just for a second.
Grayson wasn't expecting to see her again.
The moment Olivia stepped into the lounge, he felt it—an almost imperceptible shift in the air, a static charge that had nothing to do with the storm brewing outside.
It was her.
From that night.
They had played pool, thrown darts, argued over sports at the bar—even closed the place down together. The conversation had been effortless, the kind of night that felt like it could stretch on forever. But it had ended without names, without numbers, without any plan to meet again.
And yet, here she was.
The flicker of recognition in her eyes matched the surprise he felt in his chest.
Of all the places.
He leaned back slightly, swirling the scotch in his glass as he watched her approach.
She stopped at his booth, lips parting slightly before pressing into a small, amused smile.
"Huh," she said, as if she wasn't entirely sure what to do with this situation. "Didn't think I'd see you again."
Grayson smirked, recovering from his initial surprise. "Likewise."
She glanced at the table, then back at him. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to trade seats?"
That caught him off guard.
"Trade seats?" he repeated.
She motioned toward the bar area. "I need a better view of the departure screens. This seat has the best angle." A slight smirk tugged at her lips. "Unless you'd rather watch me miss my flight?"
Grayson studied her, amused. Of all the people in this airport, of all the canceled flights, she had walked into the same lounge, standing in front of his booth, asking him to move as if this was just another minor inconvenience.
He set his scotch down, tilting his head. "You sure you don't just want to sit with me instead?"
Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn't considered that option. Then, after a beat, she slid into the booth across from him, resting her arms on the table.
"I suppose that works too."
Grayson exhaled a quiet laugh, still thrown but not at all opposed to this turn of events.
She leaned back, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. "So. Are you following me, or is this just another weird coincidence?"
Grayson smirked. "I could ask you the same thing."
She sighed, glancing at the departure board. "New York. Eventually. If I ever make it out of London."
He nodded, sipping his scotch. "Bad luck with flights?
"You have no idea." She glanced back at him. "And you? Business or pleasure?"
Grayson leaned back, watching her with growing amusement. "A little of both."
She gave him a skeptical look. "Vague."
"Not intentionally."
She hummed, studying him. "Well, at least I got lucky with the seat swap. The guy before you looked like he was ready to schedule a board meeting in here."
Grayson chuckled. "And I don't?"
She tilted her head, eyes flicking over his tailored suit. "Less corporate, more… refined."
Grayson arched a brow, enjoying this more than he probably should.
Then she hesitated again, just slightly. "I should introduce myself, since we never got around to that last time."
Grayson extended a hand, his grip firm but easy. "Grayson."
She took it, her fingers warm against his. "Olivia."
His smirk deepened.
So that was her name.
After all this time, after a night that had left him wondering, after assuming he'd never see her again—
Now, he finally knew.
And suddenly, this layover wasn't looking so bad after all.
Grayson leaned back in his seat, still processing the unexpected twist his evening had taken. Olivia. The woman from that night. The woman who had kept him on his toes over a game of pool, debated him over the greatest quarterbacks of all time, and then disappeared before he could ask for her number.
And now, here she was, sitting across from him in an airport lounge, as if fate had decided their unfinished conversation deserved a second round.
"So," Olivia said, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin against her hand. "Are you one of those people who believes in coincidence, or are we in a rom-com-level meet-cute situation?"
Grayson smirked, lifting his glass. "I don't really do rom-coms."
She raised an eyebrow. "Not even a guilty pleasure one?"
"I'm more of a thriller guy."
Olivia hummed as if weighing that answer. "I could see that. So, what's the thriller version of this moment?"
Grayson thought for a second, then set his drink down. "International espionage. You're actually a spy, and this is the moment you try to recruit me for some high-stakes operation."
Her lips twitched. "Tempting, but I think you'd be the one recruiting me. You've got that whole serious, mysterious thing going on."
"Mysterious?"
She gestured at his suit. "Tailored, but not stiff. Business-class lounge, but you're drinking scotch instead of answering emails. You're either a businessman or some kind of undercover agent."
Grayson chuckled, shaking his head. "Not quite."
"Then what do you do?"
He considered his answer. He wasn't the type to overshare, and she didn't seem like the type who needed a polished, rehearsed response.
"I manage investments."
Olivia narrowed her eyes slightly, as if trying to decide if she believed him. "That's a very vague way of saying 'I make a lot of money and don't want to talk about it.'"
He smirked. "And what do you do?"
"I'm a pharmacist."
Grayson lifted a brow. "Really?"
"What, I don't look like one?"
He took her in again—the effortless style, the confidence, the easy way she handled their conversation. "You don't look like what I expected."
She grinned. "And what did you expect?"
"Someone in a white coat, wearing glasses, reciting long chemical names."
Olivia laughed, shaking her head. "Yeah, that's not me. Though I do know a lot of long chemical names, if that impresses you."
He smirked. "I'll save my judgment until I hear one."
She thought for a second, then rattled off something that sounded far too complicated to be real.
Grayson blinked. "You just made that up."
She laughed. "I didn't! That's an actual drug."
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I'll take your word for it."
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't awkward. If anything, it was comfortable, familiar, like the night at the bar all over again.
Olivia glanced at the departure board again, exhaling. "Still delayed."
Grayson followed her gaze. "You in a rush to get back?"
She hesitated for half a second before answering. "Not really. Just don't want to spend all night stuck here."
He studied her, picking up on something in her tone, but didn't push. Instead, he leaned back. "Could be worse."
She turned back to him, a challenge in her eyes. "Oh? How?"
Grayson shrugged, lifting his glass. "Bad airport company. Long layovers with a stranger who talks too much. Bad coffee."
She smirked. "Lucky you, then."
He chuckled, tapping his fingers against his glass. "Guess I got lucky after all."
Olivia's lips pressed together like she was fighting a smile, but he could see the amusement in her eyes.
She gestured toward the bar. "Alright, mysterious investment guy. I'm starving, and the snacks they hand out on flights won't cut it. Buy me dinner?"
Grayson tilted his head. "So you are recruiting me for a mission."
She laughed. "No espionage involved. Just a meal. Unless you're too busy managing your investments?"
He smirked, setting his drink down. "I think I can make time."
Olivia slid out of the booth, grabbing her bag. Grayson stood, smoothing out his jacket before following her toward the bar.
His night had taken an unexpected turn.
And for once, he wasn't complaining.
The bar wasn't crowded, but there was a steady hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional sighs of exhausted travelers watching the departure board like it might magically change. Grayson and Olivia settled into a high-top table near the window, the outside world nothing but thick fog and blinking runway lights.
A bartender in a crisp black vest approached, setting down two menus. "Anything to drink for the lady?"
Olivia glanced at Grayson's scotch, then at the bartender. "I'll take a whiskey sour."
Grayson arched a brow. "Didn't peg you for a whiskey drinker."
Olivia smirked. "I make exceptions when my flight gets canceled." She flipped open the menu. "And when I'm stuck having dinner with an investment guy who thinks he let me win at darts."
He chuckled, setting his glass down. "Still holding onto that, huh?"
"Absolutely."
The bartender returned with her drink, and they placed their orders—Grayson opting for a steak, Olivia for a pasta dish she swore wouldn't disappoint.
As they waited, the conversation flowed as easily as it had that night at the bar.
"So," Olivia started, taking a sip of her drink. "What's the worst airport meal you've ever had?"
Grayson smirked. "Singapore. Ordered what I thought was a simple omelet. Turned out to be… not an omelet."
Olivia laughed. "How does an omelet go wrong?"
"I have no idea what they put in it. It had a crunch. Eggs aren't supposed to crunch."
She grimaced. "Yeah, that's nightmare fuel."
"What about you?" he asked, leaning on his elbows.
She thought for a second, stirring the ice in her drink with her straw. "Dallas. Layover from hell. I was starving and ordered nachos. What I got was a sad pile of tortilla chips with cold shredded cheese that never melted. It was a personal betrayal."
Grayson shook his head. "That's unacceptable."
"Right? I still think about it." She sighed dramatically, then smirked. "But this meal? This meal might redeem my faith in airport food."
As if on cue, their plates arrived, steam rising from the dishes. Olivia's pasta smelled rich, the creamy sauce clinging to the fresh noodles, while Grayson's steak was cooked to a perfect medium-rare.
They dug in, conversation never skipping a beat.
"So," Olivia said after a few bites. "Do you always drink scotch alone in airport lounges, or was tonight a special occasion?"
Grayson smirked. "You make it sound tragic."
She lifted a shoulder. "Just wondering if I interrupted a very intense night of financial strategizing."
He shook his head, cutting into his steak. "No deep strategizing tonight. Just passing the time." He paused, giving her a pointed look. "Until you walked in."
Olivia twirled her fork in her pasta, eyes glinting with amusement. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Didn't say that."
She smirked but didn't press him on it.
A few minutes passed, the comfortable silence broken only by the occasional comment about the food or an observation about the people around them. A couple at the bar was deep in an argument about rebooking flights, and an older gentleman near the window had fallen asleep over his newspaper.
"So, tell me," Olivia said, sitting back. "If your flight wasn't delayed, where would you be right now?"
Grayson wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "On my way to New York."
"For business?"
He nodded. "Meetings. Investments to manage."
She narrowed her eyes playfully. "That vague answer again."
"It's accurate."
She took another sip of her drink. "Okay, so if you weren't in business—if you could do anything else—what would it be?"
That made him pause. It wasn't a question he was often asked.
"Honestly?" he said after a beat. "I don't know."
"No childhood dream?" she prompted. "No 'I wanted to be an astronaut when I was five' kind of story?"
Grayson smirked. "No astronaut dreams. You?"
Olivia shrugged. "I wanted to be a detective for a while. I read too many mystery novels as a kid."
Grayson tilted his head. "I can actually see that."
She pointed her fork at him. "Right? I feel like I'd be good at it."
"I don't doubt it."
She took a bite of pasta, chewing thoughtfully. "But then I realized I actually loved chemistry and science, and being a detective is a lot less glamorous than TV makes it seem. So pharmacy won."
Grayson nodded, watching her. "Do you like it?"
She considered the question for a second, then nodded. "I do. It's not always exciting, but I like knowing I help people—even in small ways."
He could tell she meant it.
Before he could say anything else, an announcement crackled over the speakers.
"Attention passengers, flight 181 to New York has been further delayed. Updated departure time will be announced shortly."
Olivia groaned, dropping her head onto her arm. "Are you kidding me?"
Grayson just smirked, lifting his glass. "Guess you're stuck with me a little longer."
She lifted her head, exhaling dramatically. "And here I was, hoping to ditch you after dinner."
He chuckled. "Liar."
She tried to keep a straight face but failed.
With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair. "Okay, since we're apparently in for the long haul, what's next? More drinks? Another round of terrible airport food? Or should I finally challenge you to a rematch at darts?"
Grayson arched a brow. "Rematch?"
Olivia grinned. "Come on, we both know I won last time. You deserve a chance at redemption."
He took a slow sip of his scotch, watching her. "Fine. But don't expect me to go easy on you this time."
She smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Grayson stood at the dartboard, lining up his shot with more concentration than was probably necessary. Olivia sat on a barstool a few feet away, watching him with an amused smirk, sipping the last of her whiskey sour.
"Alright, this is it," he muttered, rolling his shoulders like an athlete about to take the game-winning shot.
"Big moment," Olivia teased. "You sure you don't need a warm-up throw?"
He shot her a look. "I let you win last time."
She hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Of course you did."
Grayson exhaled slowly, narrowed his eyes, and released the dart.
It hit the board.
Just not anywhere near where he had intended.
Olivia burst into laughter, nearly doubling over as she clapped her hands. "Oh my God—was that supposed to be a bullseye?"
Grayson turned to her with an exasperated smirk. "I'm pretty sure the board shifted."
"Oh, absolutely," she said between laughs. "Probably the wind."
He shook his head, letting out a chuckle despite himself. "I don't lose often, you know."
Olivia grinned, hopping off the barstool. "And yet, here we are. You, losing. Again." She reached up and patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. "I have to say, it's kind of a great look on you."
Before Grayson could come up with a response, a familiar voice cut through the noise of the bar.
"There you are!"
Both of them turned to see George striding toward them, slightly out of breath and looking exasperated. Dressed in his usual navy suit, tie slightly loosened, he carried Grayson's phone in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.
Grayson sighed, already knowing whatever was coming next wasn't going to be good.
"Grayson, I've been looking everywhere for you," George said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You have an urgent call from the investors regarding the Milan acquisition."
Grayson ran a hand down his face. "Right now?"
"Yes, right now." George's eyes darted to the departure board, and his expression grew even more stressed. "And also—your flight to Italy is now boarding."
Grayson glanced over his shoulder at the gate information blinking across the screen. His flight. The one he had nearly forgotten about entirely.
He looked back at Olivia. She was still watching him, arms crossed, amusement still lingering on her face. But there was something else in her eyes now—something unreadable.
"This your cue to disappear again?" she asked, her tone light, but there was something underneath it.
Grayson exhaled, rolling his shoulders before turning back to George. "Tell them I'll call from the jet."
George huffed. "You're going to make them wait?"
Grayson smirked, reaching for his suit jacket draped over the chair. "They'll live."
George sighed but didn't argue, already dialing as he turned away.
Grayson glanced at Olivia one last time. "I'd say we should finish this game, but…"
She arched a brow. "Oh, I think we did."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll let you have this one."
She smirked. "Very generous of you."
Grayson took a step back, adjusting his cufflinks. "Maybe next time, I'll actually win."
Olivia tilted her head. "Next time?"
He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, then smirked. "Maybe."
And with that, he turned, heading toward the exit where George was already muttering into the phone, trying to stall the investors.
Olivia watched him go, still smiling to herself as she picked up her drink.
"Maybe," she murmured, taking one last sip.
And just like that, he was gone.