Born To Be More

Taking flight

Chapter 2

My bags are packed. My flight’s about to board. And Lacy? She’s sobbing like she’s being personally abandoned on a desert island.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving!” she wails, arms flailing, drawing the kind of attention that would make a Kardashian proud.

“I’m really going to miss you too, my girl,” I say, pulling her into a hug. And I mean it. She's been my constant—my chaos and my comfort. Plus, she makes a lasagna that could resurrect the dead.

Ever since I ripped up that dodgy Shine contract, life has gone from zero to warp speed. Lance ghosted the agency—poof, no trace. Within hours, Chic sent through a fresh contract with everything locked down: an external lawyer to review it (bless), first-class flights, luxury accommodation, and a full two-year plan. Boom. Just like that, I was leaving.

I found someone to take over my lease—mostly to help Lacy out—and packed up my room in two manic days. Now I’m standing here at the airport, dragging out goodbyes and trying not to second-guess myself.

“Lacy, babe,” I say, brushing a tear off her glittered cheek, “you can come visit anytime. We’ll sip Manhattans in Manhattan, live our s*x and the City moment. I’ll even let you wear the tutu.”

She laughs through her tears. “You better. Just promise me you’ll stay safe. And come home if it ever feels too much.”

“I will. I promise.”

But honestly? I don’t know if I can keep that promise. Because this—this move, this moment—is exactly what I’ve been craving. And fearing. A chance to do something big. Something that isn’t just about surviving or pleasing everyone else.

New Zealand is my home. It’s beautiful, wild, spiritual. Our land breathes with mana and memory. I’ve always felt safest among our native woods or barefoot at the beach, salt in my hair, earth under my feet. That peace—the kind you don’t have to chase—I’ll miss that most.

And now I’m trading it for skyscrapers and strangers and the blinding noise of the world’s biggest city.

“Lacy, that’s my call—I have to go through customs,” I say, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder.

She throws her arms around me one last time. “Okay, okay. But you better call me the moment you land, alright? And promise me you’ll talk to all the sexy hot American guys and have some actual fun. You deserve it. And your kootchie? She deserves some action before she dries up like a damn prune.”

She says it loud enough for the entire terminal to hear.

I burst out laughing as people around us whip their heads around, pretending they didn’t just hear the word kootchie shouted like a war cry. So very Lacy.

“I will,” I promise, grinning. “You be safe too, and don’t forget to keep in touch.”

“Oh, and I left a little surprise in your room,” I add, just to distract her from sobbing again.

That earns me a wicked smile through her smudged mascara. “If it’s not tequila or batteries, I’m gonna be disappointed.”

I blow her a kiss and turn toward the security line, my heart full and my stomach full of nerves.

Next stop: New York.

I backed away and went through the security checks. Handing over my small carry-on bag and dropping my phone into the tray to be x-rayed, I stepped through the body scanner and waited for that silent all-clear from the customs officer, who was eyeing me like I was smuggling cocaine in my bra. He finally gave me a nod, so I scooped up my stuff and made my way toward the boarding gates.

I’m flying direct from Auckland to Los Angeles, then connecting to New York. Total travel time: nineteen and a half hours, plus a four-hour layover. Kill me now. I sighed just thinking about how numb my butt was going to be. Still, I stopped at the shop near the gate to grab a few essentials—a neck pillow and some lollies, obviously. Sweet treats and sugar comas were my survival strategy.

I’m flying economy, which honestly doesn’t bother me. I booked the flight myself and sent the agency the details to process. They wanted me to have time to wrap up my life here, so they left the travel to me—which worked out perfectly. I didn’t want to start off looking like some high-maintenance diva anyway. Glam life isn’t really my thing. It’s the Kiwi way to stay humble and make do with what we’ve got. Oh, and by the way, yes—we call ourselves Kiwis. It’s not just a fruit or a bird; it’s our whole national identity. And no, we are not part of Australia. They’re our neighbours. Big difference.

Boarding started. I handed my pass to the airline staff and walked down the jet bridge. Thank God I had the sense to book a window seat. At least I could lean against something when I eventually gave up on sleep and decided to stare at clouds for nine hours.

I made it to my row and groaned internally. Two guys were already seated in the aisle and middle seats, which meant one of two things: either they had to get up, or I had to do the awkward booty shuffle. And there was no way I was squeezing past them—especially with the way they were both clearly checking me out.

I reached up to stow my carry-on, shifting bags around like a competitive game of Tetris. Honestly, why do people insist on shoving their entire wardrobe into a tiny carry-on and then act surprised when it doesn’t fit? People are idiots. With some help from the flight attendant, I managed to make room for my bag.

I looked down and caught the two guys full-on gawking at my legs. Typical. Raising a brow, I gave them a look. “Hi, I’m Raine. Mind hopping out so I can get to my seat?”

One of them elbowed the other and they scrambled to their feet like guilty schoolboys.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Our pleasure,” replied the dark-haired one with a cheeky grin. He looked around my age and, admittedly, wasn’t bad to look at.

Well, at least I’ll have someone to talk to on this long-ass flight.

Once I was settled in, the guys introduced themselves as Wiremu and Jake. We got talking about where we’re from—because in New Zealand, that matters. Your roots, your region, your people—it’s all part of your identity. Might sound weird to outsiders, but it’s who we are. And I liked that they got it.

Bottom of Form

These guys are from Taupō and are heading to Los Angeles on a basketball scholarship to play for a development squad in a major league. I’m impressed—they’re young, ambitious, and clearly going places.

“Excuse me, Miss Marshall,” a flight attendant with the warm personality of a broken blender snaps over the guys. Her face is tight with bitterness—surely that’s not aimed at me?

“Yes?” I say, blinking.

“You’ve been upgraded to business class. You can move seats and come with me.”

Huh? What?

“Oh! Thank you, that’s lovely… but maybe someone else could use it? Like, I don’t know, an elderly person traveling alone?” I offer. She huffs, quirking her lip into something that could maybe be mistaken for a smirk—if you squint—and walks off without another word.

Okay. That one’s got issues.

I glance at the guys next to me. Wiremu—pretty sure that’s his name—looks stunned. “That never happens,” he says. “You should’ve taken the upgrade. But I’m happy you didn’t,” he adds with a wink.

I laugh. “Well, someone might need it more.”

“Miss Marshall.”

Oh, she’s back. And this time, she looks like someone just pissed in her cornflakes.

“Yes?” I reply, biting back a sigh.

“Unfortunately, your upgrade is not negotiable and we need to move you now. You’re holding up the flight.”

Wow. This woman seriously needs to chill—or maybe just a strong drink and a therapist.

I unclip my belt, gather my things, and glance back at Wiremu and Jake, who are both staring at the attendant like she just clubbed a kitten. I grin. “Maybe her panties are on too tight or something,” I whisper, trying to lighten the moment.

“Move along,” the attendant snaps, and off we go.

I say goodbye to the boys and follow her up the aisle to the business class cabin. She gestures stiffly. “Your seat, Miss Marshall. Please hurry so we can get in the air,” she says, her voice now sickly sweet, like she’s trying to win a gold medal in faking nice.

What is with this woman?

I head toward my new seat next to a man in the aisle. He stands to let me pass—gentlemanly, considering there’s enough space to squeeze by without him moving. I murmur my thanks, eyes flicking up—and just like that, I forget how to function.

Holy. s**t.

He’s gorgeous. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a sexy shadow of stubble that screams "I look good on your pillow." Not quite scruffy—more like deliberately rough. The kind that would feel amazing on my neck, my chest, my thighs—

Stop.

Snap out of it, Raine.

I jerk my gaze toward the seat and slide in quickly, pretending I wasn’t just mentally licking the man beside me. He smells delicious, too. Perfect. I’m stuck beside a walking s*x god for the next... what, twelve hours?

This is going to be torture.

I buckle my seatbelt, stash my things, and lean back with a deep breath, closing my eyes for a second. The seat is so plush and luxurious it’s like being hugged by money.

I can feel eyes on me.

“Max,” the man beside me says in a voice that should come with a warning label. Deep. Sultry. Absolutely filthy. The kind of voice that makes your toes curl and your standards drop.

I turn my head. He’s holding out his hand.

“Raine. Hi.” I place my hand in his, and holy hell—sparks. Literal sparks. Like my entire nervous system just overloaded.

“Hello, Raine,” he says, still holding my hand, and I can’t breathe. Why is he still holding my hand? Why is this affecting me so much? What is happening?

I eventually pull back, trying not to look like a total creep, and smile awkwardly.

Did I say this flight was going to be long? I meant excruciating.

The plane starts taxiing. The attendants go into their safety routine, and I try—really try—to focus on the instructions, but all I can think about is Max. My eyes sneak another glance. No ring. Thick thighs under dark jeans. A fitted shirt that does not hide the solid body beneath it.

This man is s*x on legs.

I force myself to look forward as the flight attendant approaches. She leans over Max, her blouse gaping open, flashing him a front-row view of her assets. She smiles like he’s a five-course meal and winks.

“Have a fabulous flight tonight, Max. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” she purrs.

Oh, girl.

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. My shoulders shake slightly as I pretend to look out the window, biting back the giggles. Could she be any more obvious? Max gives her a polite nod like it’s no big deal, and I finally let a snort out once she’s gone.

With that, the plane surges forward, roaring down the runway. I press my head back, my stomach flipping—not from the takeoff, but from the reality that I’ve just left New Zealand behind… for the next two years.