Miami International Airport at six in the morning smells like missed connections and overpriced coffee. I stand at the gate counter, tapping one manicured nail against the laminate, watching the departure board flicker from DELAYED to CANCELED with the cold satisfaction of a woman who expects nothing from the universe and still gets disappointed.

“What do you mean, there’s nothing until tomorrow?” The bride’s voice on my phone trembles. Maya. My ex-law school roommate who somehow still believes in forever despite watching me eviscerate fourteen marriages in the past eight months alone. “Lena, you promised.”

“I’m aware of my contractual obligations, Maya.” I shift my leather tote higher on my shoulder. “I’ll find a way.”

The gate agent won’t meet my eyes. She’s already scanning the growing line of angry passengers, her smile brittle as cheap porcelain.

I’m calculating my next move—rental car to Key West, maybe a boat, I’ve billed hours at higher stakes than this—when a voice rolls over my shoulder like warmed honey poured straight into my ear canal.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world.”

I turn.

He’s leaning against a pillar with the casual grace of a man who’s never missed a connection in his life. Wind-tousled brown hair. Eyes the color of good whiskey catching light. A vintage camera slung across his chest like a soldier’s medal. And a smile so effortlessly charming I want to object on principle.

“Did you just quote Casablanca at an airport?” I ask.

“Did it work?” That smile widens, carving deep laugh lines into his cheeks.

“On what planet would that work?”

He pushes off the pillar, closing the space between us in two easy strides. Up close, I catch the faint tan line circling his left ring finger. A ghost. Interesting.

“The planet where we’re all stuck together in travel purgatory,” he says, “and a little Bogart might be the only thing standing between us and collective despair.” He extends his hand. “Caleb Whitfield.”

I don’t take it. “Alaina Vasquez.”

“Alaina.” He rolls my name like he’s testing the weight of it. “That’s lovely. Three syllables of pure music.”

“It’s two syllables too many for this conversation.” I turn back to the gate agent, who’s now actively avoiding eye contact with everyone. “I need to get to Isla Perdida. There’s a charter company that operates out of the private terminal. Can you facilitate a transfer?”

Caleb straightens. “Did you say Isla Perdida?”

The way he says it sends a cold trickle down my spine. Not recognition. Certainty.

“The Wilkinson-Rao wedding,” he continues, and now his smile has shifted into something almost predatory. Delighted, even. “You’re Maya’s divorce lawyer roommate.”

“I’m a family law attorney,” I correct, ice in every syllable. “And how exactly do you know that?”

“Dev’s my cousin. The groom.” He folds his arms, camera bumping against his chest. “He told me to look out for ‘the terrifying woman in the suit who could argue gravity into a settlement.’” His gaze drops to my charcoal blazer, my silk shell, then back up. “You fit the description.”

“Terrifying. I’ll add that to my LinkedIn.”

The gate agent clears her throat. “There’s a charter service at the south terminal. One plane left heading toward the islands, but they’re closing operations in forty minutes because of the weather system moving in.”

“Weather system?” I’m already walking.

“Hurricane Elara,” Caleb says, matching my stride. “She was supposed to veer north. Apparently, she didn’t get the memo.”

We power-walk through the terminal, his camera bumping rhythmically against his hip, my heels striking the tile like a closing argument. The private terminal is smaller, grimier, the kind of place where safety regulations go to die. A single propeller plane sits on the tarmac, its engine already whining.

“Two seats,” the pilot says, not looking up from his clipboard. “Final call. Storm’s shifting faster than the models predicted.”

I’m already handing over my credit card when Caleb slides in beside me.

“Two seats,” he echoes, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Looks like we’re doing this together, counselor.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you?”

“Nothing. We’re not speaking.”

The plane is held together with duct tape and prayers. Six seats total, all empty except ours. I choose the window; he takes the aisle directly across from me, close enough that his knee nearly brushes mine when he shifts.

“You know,” he says as the plane lurches down the runway, “this is very It Happened One Night. Clark Gable. Claudette Colbert. Two strangers forced together by circumstance, discovering—”

“I’m familiar with the film.” I grip the armrest as the nose tilts skyward. “She’s an heiress running from a bad marriage. I’m an attorney running toward one. The metaphors don’t align.”

“You don’t believe in metaphors?”

“I don’t believe in marriage.”

The words hang between us, sharp as a gavel strike.

Caleb doesn’t flinch. Instead, he tilts his head, studying me with those warm, infuriating eyes, and I feel suddenly like a negative being held up to the light.

“Not a single one?” he asks quietly. “Fourteen cases and you’ve never seen a marriage worth saving?”

“I’m very good at my job.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The plane shudders. Hard. My stomach drops as we hit a pocket of turbulence that rattles the overhead compartments. Outside the window, the sky has gone from pale dawn to bruise-purple, lightning flickering in the distance like a warning.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom, “we’re hitting some weather ahead of schedule. Please remain seated and keep your seatbelts fastened. We’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes, but it might get bumpy.”

Twenty minutes.

Another jolt. The plane dips, then claws its way back up, and my hand flies to the armrest—

Only to find warmth already there.

Caleb’s palm covers my knuckles. Not grabbing. Not restraining. Just there. Steady. His fingers are calloused in the way of someone who works with his hands, and the weight of them sends an electric current straight through my blazer, my silk shell, my skin.

I should pull away.

I don’t.

“For the record,” he murmurs, and his voice is lower now, stripped of the charm, “I believe in marriage. I believe in all of it. The messy parts, the impossible parts, the parts that make lawyers like you very, very rich.”

“How romantic.”

“I’m a wedding photographer.” His thumb moves—one stroke, barely there—across my knuckle. “Romance is my job description.”

The plane bucks again. Outside, rain lashes the window in horizontal sheets, and the ocean below is a churning gray maw. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and I don’t know if it’s the turbulence or his hand or the terrifying realization that I haven’t been touched—truly touched—in three years.

“This is your captain. We’re beginning our final descent into Isla Perdida. Visibility is poor, and we are the last aircraft being permitted to land before the storm grounds everything. The resort has been notified. We’ll have you on the ground shortly.”

The last aircraft.

Caleb’s fingers tighten around mine. I let them.

“Whatever happens,” he says, “at least we’ll have a good story.”

“I don’t want a story,” I whisper. “I want a signed contract and a return flight.”

The plane angles downward, engines screaming, rain swallowing the world outside the window until there’s nothing but gray and his hand and the terrible, thrilling possibility that I might not hate this man nearly as much as I should.

And then the wheels hit the runway, and the tiny island materializes through the storm—palm trees bent sideways, whitecaps clawing at the shore, a cluster of villa roofs huddled together like they’re bracing for impact.

We’re here.

We’re stranded.

And when the resort manager meets us at the lobby, wringing her hands and apologizing in three languages, I learn exactly how stranded we are.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and she won’t look at either of us. “The original couple for the honeymoon villa canceled. We assumed—there’s been a mistake. It’s the only room left. We’ve assigned you both to Villa Solara.”

“Both?” My voice comes out flat. Deadly. “As in, together?”

“It’s the honeymoon suite, Miss Vasquez. There’s only one bed.”

Caleb Whitfield, wedding photographer, hopeless romantic, my personal disaster wrapped in a vintage camera strap, turns to me with a smile that could launch a thousand ships straight into an iceberg.

“Well, counselor,” he says. “This is going to be interesting.”

I stare at the rain-battered doors of the villa. At the king-sized bed visible through the window. At the storm swallowing the horizon whole.

“I’d rather sue,” I mutter.

And somewhere in the distance, thunder laughs.