Beyound the schedule

Nine hours.

Nine long hours.

That was how long this flight was.

And every single one of those hours had been a test of endurance. Not because of turbulence, or uncomfortable seats, or bad food—no, the true challenge of this flight was Freya Vesper and her inability to sit still.

I had mentally prepared for chaos, but I had underestimated just how much damage one single football star could do when forced to stay in one place for almost half a day.

Freya had somehow managed to do all of the following:

Stolen my blanket because she "needed it more." Complained about airplane food like she was being personally victimized.

Bothered every single flight attendant who dared to walk by. Tried to see if she could balance a fork on her nose. Talked non-stop for three hours straight.

At some point, my brain had shut down entirely, and I had resorted to my last line of defense—watching a documentary about murder.

Specifically, about how people got away with murder.

Freya had finally gone quiet, sipping on her champagne while glancing at my screen every few minutes.

Then, right when I thought she might actually stay quiet for longer than ten minutes, she leaned closer and squinted at the subtitles.

"Did you know," I said calmly, without looking away from my screen, "that you can kill someone with nothing but an icicle?"

Freya blinked slowly, processing my words.

I took a sip of water. "Because it melts. No murder weapon. No evidence."

Silence.

Then—

Freya laughed so hard she nearly choked on her drink.

"Oh my God, Lydia," she wheezed, gripping the armrest. "Are you planning something? Should I be worried?"

I finally looked at her, deadpan. "Nine hours, Freya."

She grinned, completely unbothered. "You love me."

"I tolerate you," I corrected.

She laughed harder.

The rest of the flight was marginally better, mostly because I ignored her completely until the plane finally began its descent.

The moment we stepped off, the first thing I noticed was the heat.

Even from inside the airport, Hawai was stunning.

The air smelled like salt and flowers, and through the massive glass windows, I could see palm trees swaying gently, sunlight glistening off the ocean in the distance.

The entire atmosphere was so wildly different from my usual surroundings that it almost felt like stepping into an entirely new world.

Freya stretched beside me, letting out a content sigh. "Smell that, Whitmore?"

I adjusted the strap of my bag. "Humidity?"

She shot me a look of pure disappointment. "No. Freedom."

I exhaled slowly. "We haven't even left the airport."

"But it's already amazing," she said, looking around like an excited kid.

It was hard to argue with that.

Hawai was, undeniably, beautiful.

We made our way through baggage claim, collecting our luggage with minimal incidents—except for the one time Freya almost knocked over a stranger with her suitcase because she wasn't paying attention.

("I barely hit him," she argued when I glared at her.)

By the time we finally stepped outside, the warm tropical air hit me fully, wrapping around me like a slow, lazy summer afternoon.

Freya inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment before grinning. "Now this is vacation."

Before I could ask what was next, Freya slung an arm over my shoulder and grinned at me.

"Ready, Whitmore?"

I sighed, adjusting my bag.

"Not even remotely."

The heat wrapped around me like a thick, sun-warmed blanket as we stepped out of the airport. The scent of salt and tropical flowers filled the air, mixing with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

Even the breeze carried something lazily intoxicating, as if the entire island was whispering, Relax. Unwind. Let go.

Freya stretched dramatically beside me, rolling her shoulders before running a hand through her short blue hair, her grey eyes bright with excitement. "God, this place is perfect."

I adjusted my bag, scanning the line of waiting cars before spotting a sleek black vehicle parked near the curb, the chauffeur standing beside it, looking effortlessly composed despite the heat.

And, unfortunately, he was attractive but I was not into man.

Tan skin, sharp jawline, and the kind of smile that had probably charmed an unreasonable number of women.

His dark hair was perfectly tousled, and his button-up shirt—white, slightly unbuttoned at the top—did nothing to hide the fact that he was, in Freya's words, a certified 'player'.

Freya noticed immediately.

I could tell by the way she nudged me lightly, grinning.

"Look at that, Whitmore. First day in Hawai, and you already have a man waiting for you."

I exhaled sharply, choosing to ignore her completely as we approached the car.

The chauffeur gave a charming smile, his gaze lingering on me just a second too long before nodding politely.

"Miss Whitmore, Miss Vesper," he greeted, his voice smooth and ridiculously self-assured. "Welcome to Hawai."

He immediately reached for my suitcase, lifting it with effortless ease before setting it neatly into the trunk.

Then, he turned to Freya.

And did not take her suitcase.

Freya blinked.

Then grinned.

"Ohhh, I see," she murmured, amused. "It's like that?"

I shot her a warning look, but she ignored me completely, watching in utter delight as she had to haul her own suitcase into the trunk while the chauffeur pretended not to notice.

The moment we slid into the car, Freya turned toward me, smirking.

"Well, well, well. Looks like someone has a fan."

I sighed, buckling my seatbelt. "Freya."

"What?" she said innocently. "I'm just saying, the man didn't even look at my suitcase, but yours? He practically worshiped it."

The chauffeur chuckled lightly from the front seat. "What can I say? Some women deserve to be treated like queens."

Freya let out a low whistle, grinning at me like she had just won the lottery.

"Oh, wow," she said, dragging out the word. "Whitmore, are you blushing?"

"I'm not blushing," I said flatly, staring out the window.

She leaned in slightly, inspecting my face with far too much interest. "Huh. You totally are."

I closed my eyes briefly, willing for patience. This vacation was going to kill me.

The chauffeur—whose name, I suddenly realized, I didn't even know—glanced at me through the rearview mirror, still smiling effortlessly.

"If you'd like," he said smoothly, "I'd be happy to give you a personal tour later. Show you the real beauty of the island."

Freya choked on air, her eyes going wide as she tried and failed to hold in her laughter.

I did not react.

I simply met his gaze coolly through the mirror.

"No, thank you," I said politely but firmly.

His smile widened slightly, like he enjoyed the challenge.

"Well, if you change your mind," he said lightly, "I'll be around."

Freya was having the time of her life.

The moment he turned his attention back to the road, she grabbed my arm, shaking it slightly.

"Lydia," she whispered dramatically, "you have to go."

I sighed deeply. "Freya, no."

"Come on," she pressed, her grey eyes full of mischief. "It's a personal tour. Who says no to that?"

"Me," I replied immediately.

Freya groaned. "You're so difficult."

I didn't respond.

Instead, I focused on the passing scenery, the lush green palm trees swaying in the distance, the endless blue of the ocean stretching far beyond the horizon.