A Summer's Coincidence With the Billionaire CEO

CHAPTER ONE

Jannah's POV

"This is your captain speaking. We've been cleared for takeoff. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and all electronic devices are switched to airplane mode," a nasally male voice announces through the PA system as I lean gingerly against the leather seat.

Finally.

"Deep breath, Jannah." I wish it were as easy as the doctor made it sound. The queasy feeling in my stomach isn't helping, and my mouth is foaming with saliva way more than usual. Not now, please.

I clutch my stomach and slide toward the right side of my seat, facing the window.

Why the hell is it taking so long for the meds to kick in? Aren't they supposed to work immediately? Like, ASAP? I let out a low sigh and rub my eyes, only reminding myself why I hate flights.

Shit, now I feel dizzy.

I pull my phone from my sweater pocket and open iMessage. Several check-in messages from my people back home sit at the top, and I reply to them before opening the last one.

"Don't forget to take your meds. Have lots of fun! Kiss Mexico hi for me. Xoxo!" That's from Kaitlyn-my office buddy and best friend.

Kiss Mexico, indeed. We were supposed to go together, but she chose her family over me. Traitor. The corners of my lips twitch into a smile, and I react with a heart emoji before turning on airplane mode.

Speaking of Mexico... A vivid image fills my thoughts-bright, clear skies, the sun-kissed skin of the locals, spicy, exotic cuisine that'll probably leave me red-faced, and the rich, melodic flow of Spanish. I stretch my legs forward eagerly, my toes wiggling in anticipation. For a moment, I almost forget my nausea.

Too bad I have to spend four hours trapped in the air. Oh well, still way better than hearing HR's high-pitched voice every day at work. And to think I wouldn't have to hear it for two whole months since I was on leave. Boy, am I lucky!

Don't get me wrong-I'm obsessed with my job (even though I have a love-hate relationship with being a software engineer), but I needed this break from coding. The words API, merge, and codebase deserve a vacation too.

I put on my headset, queue up Sabrina Carpenter's Short n' Sweet album, and let myself drift to sleep.

****

Mexico. Finally.

The rowdiness of the airport irks me. Spanish fills the air, and I silently curse myself for not taking my Spanish classes seriously.

Everyone from my flight is heading toward immigration and customs. Me? I'm already done with that.

My eyes lock onto the baggage carousel display. A few minutes pass before mine pops up-Carousel K1. With hurried steps, I make my way to the designated area.

Twenty-five minutes later...

I lean in, squinting to get a better view of the luggage. My eyesight isn't that bad. How the hell have I not seen my suitcase yet? Everyone who was here before me has already left with their stuff.

No, no, no.

This is like a freaking nightmare. No way am I losing my luggage after flying business class.

I check my baggage claim ticket and luggage tags-again-just in case I'm at the wrong carousel. Nope. This is the right one.

Shit. My baggage is missing.

What's more frustrating than this? The constant bumps and shoves from other passengers? Annoying. Not knowing Spanish? More annoying. Traveling solo? Super annoying. And now this? A few pairs of eyes dart in my direction, but yeah, a couple of stares from strangers aren't going to wipe the scowl off my face, mi amigo.

Thank God this is an international airport-I find the service desk easily.

"Uh... buenas tardes, my luggage is missing," I mumble.

The woman at the counter blinks once before turning to her screen.

"Your luggage details, please," she says, her fingers tapping against the keyboard without looking up.

"My apologies, ma'am. It looks like your luggage didn't make it onto the flight. We'll need to investigate further and try to locate it."

"So how long do I have to wait?" I drum my fingers on the counter.

"Let's see... We usually advise waiting up to a week. Here's your reference number." Her words trail off as I type the number into my notes app.

"Thanks," I mutter.

I have a million questions but decide against asking them. My carry-on contains my MacBook, skincare, a few pairs of underwear, some clothes, and a pair of espadrilles. I am so screwed.

Duffel bag clutched in my arms, a deep frown on my face, headphones resting on my shoulders, and my head propped against my palm, I stare blankly at the airport's chaotic flow of people. My thoughts spiral-

"Please, God, don't let my Jimmy Choo sandals get stolen.

So I have to buy a whole new wardrobe this summer, huh?"

You know you could've just stayed in L.A., right?"

I can't even think straight. Not yet.

I'm still reeling when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Wrong timing, bro. Too bad for whoever it is.

From experience, it's either someone asking for directions or some guy who doesn't know how to read the room and wants my number.

I roll my eyes and stretch my legs further.

Please, leave me alone. I don't want to give out my number. I don't want to hear your cringey pickup lines. I definitely don't want to fake-laugh at your stupid joke. The only thing I want to hear is that they found my damn luggage.

Whoever's behind me eventually steps in front of me. I purposely avoid looking up. From his shoes, I can tell-it's a he.

I groan.

The guy must think he can charm me, seeing as he's still standing there sixty seconds later.

Creep.

With deliberate slowness, I lift my gaze to meet his.

Light brown eyes-coffee mixed with cream-pin my stare. His deep brown hair falls just above his sharp, small eyes. High cheekbones complement the angular structure of his jutted jaw, making him look straight out of a fashion magazine.

He's tall. Like, tall tall. Six-foot-six, maybe? Compared to my five-nine, I must look like a dwarf.

His thick, well-arched brows rise questioningly.

He knows he looks good. From the way he extends his hand for a shake, to the unfazed expression that gives him this enigmatic aura... Damn.

The gray sweatshirt hugs his sturdy shoulders, flexing with each move. His denim pants hang just low enough on his waist to be dangerous.

I press my legs together.

Compared to my flared leggings, cropped tee, and old Crocs? Yeah. I feel like a pauper.

"I'm Ethan Hunt," he says.

His voice is low. Smooth. Sonorous.

It pulls me out of the spell.