Fight or Flight

  Samantha Young is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the On Dublin Street series, the Hart’s Boardwalk series and the standalone novel Hero. She resides in Scotland.

  Visit Samantha Young online:

  www.authorsamanthayoung.com

  @AuthorSamYoung

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author

  SAMANTHA YOUNG

  “This is a really sexy book and I loved the heroine’s journey to find herself and grow strong. Highly recommend this one.”

  —USA Today

  “Will knock your socks off … [an] unforgettable love story.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Humor, heartbreak, drama, and passion.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  “Truly enjoyable … a really satisfying love story.”

  —Dear Author

  “[Samantha Young’s] enchanting couples and delicious romances make her books an autobuy.”

  —Smexy Books

  “Hot, bittersweet, intense … sensual, with witty banter, angst, heartbreaking moments, and a love story you cannot help but embrace.”

  —Caffeinated Book Reviewer

  “Filled with heart, passion, intensity, conflict, and emotion.”

  —Literary Cravings

  “[Young] is a goddess when it comes to writing hot scenes.”

  —Once Upon a Twilight

  “Ms. Young dives deep into the psyche of what makes a person tick emotionally … [The] one thing you can count on from Ms. Young is some of the best steamy sexual chemistry.”

  —Fiction Vixen

  “Smart and sexy, Young writes stories that stay with you long after you flip that last page.”

  —Under the Covers Book Blog

  “Charismatic characters, witty dialogue, blazing-hot sex scenes, and real-life issues make this book an easy one to devour. Samantha Young is not an author you should miss out on!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  ALSO BY SAMANTHA YOUNG

  THE HART’S BOARDWALK SERIES

  Every Little Thing

  The One Real Thing

  On Hart’s Boardwalk (novella)

  THE ON DUBLIN STREET SERIES

  Moonlight on Nightingale Way

  Echoes of Scotland Street

  Fall from India Place

  Before Jamaica Lane

  Down London Road

  On Dublin Street

  One King’s Way (novella)

  Until Fountain Bridge (novella)

  Castle Hill (novella)

  Hero

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-41930-5

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Samantha Young

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Excerpt from The One Real Thing copyright © 2016 by Samantha Young

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Samantha Young

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  One

  SKY HARBOR AIRPORT, ARIZONA MARCH 2018

  Food. Food and coffee. I knew those should be my priority. The grumbles in my belly were making that perfectly clear. And considering the purpose for my visit to Phoenix, it was no wonder I was marching through the terminal after having my bag searched in security, feeling like I might claw someone’s face off if I didn’t get a shot of caffeine in my system.

  Even though I was hangry, my priority was to get upgraded to first class on my flight home to Boston. I could be hangry all I wanted in an airport. But as I was someone who suffered from mild claustrophobia, sitting in coach—with my luck stuck beside someone who would take their shoes and socks off during the flight—would be a million times worse than being hangry. I couldn’t chance it. A pair of strange, hot, sweaty, smelly bare feet next to me for four and a half hours? No, that was a hell my current state of mind couldn’t deal with. I shuddered as I marched toward the desk at my gate.

  Seeing a small group of people crowded under a television screen, I faltered, wondering what had drawn them to the news. I slowed at the images of huge plumes of smoke billowing out of a tremendously large mountain, my curiosity drawing me to a halt.

  Within a few seconds the news told me that an unpronounceable volcano in Iceland had erupted, creating this humungous ash cloud that was causing disruption in Europe. Flights there had been grounded and consequently travel chaos ensued.

  The thought of being stuck in an airport for an indeterminate number of hours—days even—made me shudder in sympathy for my poor fellow human beings.

  I couldn’t imagine dealing with that on top of the week I’d just had. I liked to think I was someone who was usually cool and collected, but lately my emotions were so close to the surface I was almost afraid of them. I asked the universe to forgive me my self-absorption, thankful that I was not someone who wasn’t going to make it home today, and continued on my path to the gate desk. There was no one in line, and the man behind it began to smile in welcome as I approached.

  “Hi, I was wondering—Oof!” I winced as a laptop bag attached to a big guy whacked against my right shoulder, knocking me back on my heels. The big guy didn’t even realize he’d hit me as he strode right past and cut in ahead of me.

  Rude!

  “I’d like tae upgrade tae first class, please,” he said in a deep, loud, rumbling, very attractive accent that did nothing to soothe my annoyance with him for cutting in front of me.

  “Of course, sir,” the gate agent answered, in such a flirtatious tone I was sure that if I’d been tall enough to see over the big guy’s shoulder I would see the agent batting his lashes at him. “Okay, flight DL180 to Boston. You’re in luck, Mr. Scott. We have one seat left in first class.”

  Oh, hell no!

  “What?” I shoved my way up next to Rude Guy, not even looking at him.

  The gate agent, sensing my tone, immediately narrowed his eyes at me and thinned his lips.

  “I was coming here to ask for an upgrade on this flight and he”—I gestured to my right—“cut in front of me. You saw him do it.”

  “Miss, I’m going to ask you to calm down and wait your turn. Although we have a very full flight today, I ca
n put you on our list and if a first-class seat opens up, we will let you know.”

  Yeah, because the way my week was going, that was likely.

  “I was first,” I insisted, my skin flushing as my blood had turned so hot with anger at the unfairness. “He whacked me with his laptop bag pushing past me to cut in line.”

  “Can we just ignore this tiny, angry person and upgrade me now?” the deep, accented voice said somewhere above my head to my right.

  His condescension finally drew my gaze to him.

  And everything suddenly made sense.

  A modern-day Viking towered over me, my attention drawing his from the gate agent. His eyes were the most beautiful I’d ever seen. A piercing ice blue against the rugged tan of his skin, the irises like pale blue glass bright against the sun streaming in through the airport windows. His hair was dark blond, short at the sides and longer on top. And even though he was not my type, I could admit his features were entirely masculine and attractive with his short, dark blond beard. It wasn’t so much a beard as a thick growth of stubble. He had a beautiful mouth, a thinner top lip but a full, sensual lower lip that gave him a broody, boyish pout at odds with his ruggedness. Gorgeous as his mouth may be, it was currently curled upward at one corner in displeasure.

  And did I mention he was built?

  The offensive laptop bag was slung over a set of shoulders so broad they would have made a football coach weep with joy. I was guessing he was just a little over six feet, but his build made him look taller. I was only five foot three but I was wearing four-inch stilettos, and yet I felt like Tinkerbell next to this guy.

  Tattoos I didn’t take the time to study peeked out from under the rolled-up sleeve of his henley shirt. A shirt that showed off the kind of muscle a guy didn’t achieve without copious visits to the gym.

  A fine male specimen, indeed.

  I rolled my eyes and shot the agent a knowing, annoyed look. “Really?” It was clear to me motorcycle-gang-member-Viking-dude was getting preferential treatment here.

  “Miss, please don’t make me call security.”

  My lips parted in shock. “Melodramatic much?”

  “You.” The belligerent rumble in the Viking’s voice made me bristle.

  I looked up at him.

  He sneered. “Take a walk, wee yin.”

  Being deliberately obtuse, I retorted, “I don’t understand Scandinavian.”

  “I’m Scottish.”

  “Do I care?”

  He muttered something unintelligible and turned to the agent. “We done?”

  The guy gave him a flirty smile and handed him his ticket and passport. “You’re upgraded, Mr. Scott.”

  “Wait, what—?” But the Viking had already taken back his passport and ticket and was striding away.

  His long legs covered more ground than mine, but I was motivated and I could run in my stilettos. So I did. With my carry-on bumping along on its wheels behind me.

  “Wait a second!” I grabbed the man’s arm and he swung around so fast I tottered.

  Quickly, I regained balance and shrugged my suit jacket back into place as I grimaced. “You should do the right thing here and give me that seat.” I didn’t know why I was being so persistent. Maybe because I’d always been frustrated when I saw someone else endure an injustice. Or maybe I was just sick of being pushed around this week.

  His expression was incredulous. “Are you kidding me with this?” I didn’t even try not to take offense. Everything about this guy offended me.

  “You”—I gestured to him, saying the word slowly so his tiny brain could compute—“Stole. My. Seat.”

  “You”—he pointed down at me—“Are. A. Nutjob.”

  Appalled, I gasped. “One, that is not true. I am hangry. There is a difference. And two, that word is completely politically incorrect.”

  He stared off into the distance above my head for a moment, seeming to gather himself. Or maybe just his patience. I think it was the latter because when he finally looked down at me with those startling eyes, he sighed. “Look, you would be almost funny if it weren’t for the fact that you’re completely unbalanced. And I’m not in the mood after having tae fly from Glasgow tae London and London tae Phoenix and Phoenix tae Boston instead of London tae Boston because my PA is a useless prat who clearly hasn’t heard of international direct flights. So do us both a favor before I say or do something I’ll regret … and walk. Away.”

  “You don’t regret calling me a nutjob?”

  His answer was to walk away.

  I slumped in defeat, watching him stride off with the first-class ticket that should have been mine.

  Deciding food and coffee could wait until I’d freshened up in the restroom—and by freshen up I meant pull myself together—I wandered off to find the closest one. Staring out of the airport window at Camelback Mountain, I wished to be as far from Phoenix as possible as quickly as possible. That was really the root of my frustration, and a little mortification began to set in as I made my way into the ladies’ restroom. I’d just taken my emotional turmoil out on a Scottish stranger. Sure, the guy was terminally rude, but I’d turned it into a “situation.” Normally I would have responded by calmly asking the agent when the next flight to Boston was and if there was a first-class seat available on that flight.

  But I was just so desperate to go home.

  After using the facilities, I washed up and stared long and hard into the mirror. I longed to splash cold water on my face, but that would mean ruining the makeup I’d painstakingly applied that morning.

  Checking myself over, I teased my fingers through the waves I’d put in my long blond hair with my straightening iron. Once I was happy with it, I turned my perusal on my outfit. The red suit was one of the nicest I owned. A double-breasted peplum jacket and a matching knee-length pencil skirt. Since the jacket looked best closed, I was only wearing a light, silk ivory camisole underneath it. I didn’t even know why I’d packed the suit, but I’d been wearing black for the last few days and the red felt like an act of defiance. Or a cry for help. Or maybe more likely an act of denial.

  Although I had a well-paid job within an exclusive interior design company as one of their designers, it was expensive to live in Boston. The diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist was a gift on my eighteenth birthday from an ex-boyfriend. For a while I’d stopped wearing it, but exuding an image of success to my absurdly wealthy and successful clients was important, so when I started my job I’d dug the bracelet out of storage, had it cleaned up, and it had sat on my wrist ever since.

  Lately, just looking at it cut me to the quick.

  Flinching, I tore my gaze from where it winked in the light on my arm, to my right wrist, where my Gucci watch sat. It was a bonus from my boss, Stella, after my first year on the job.

  As for the black suede Jimmy Choos on my feet, with their sexy stiletto and cute ankle strap, they were one of many I was in credit card debt over. If I lived anywhere but Boston, I would have been able to afford as many Choos as I wanted on my six-figure salary. But my salary went into my hefty monthly rent bill.

  It was a cute, six-hundred-square-foot apartment, but it was in Beacon Hill. Mount Vernon Street to be exact, a mere few minutes’ walk from Boston Common. It also cost me just over four thousand dollars a month in rent. That didn’t include the rest of my bills. I had enough to put some savings away after the tax man took his cut too, but I couldn’t afford to indulge in the Choos I wanted.

  So, yes, I’d reached the age of thirty with some credit card debt to my name.

  But I guessed that made me like most of my fellow countrymen and -women, right? I stared at my immaculate reflection, ignoring the voice in my head that said some of those folks had credit card debt because of medical bills, or because they needed to feed their kids that week.

  Not so they could live in a ridiculously overpriced area of Boston (no matter how much I loved it there) or wear designer shoes so their clients felt like they were dealing with som
eone who understood their wants better.

  I bypassed the thought, not needing to mentally berate myself any more than I had since arriving back in Phoenix. I was perfectly happy with my life before I came home.

  Perfectly happy with my perfect apartment, and my perfect hair, and my perfect shoes!

  Perfect was good.

  I straightened my jacket and grabbed hold of the handle of my carry-on.

  Perfect was control.

  Staring at the pretty picture I made in the mirror, I felt myself relax. If that gate agent had been into women, I so would have gotten that first-class seat.

  “But forget it,” I whispered. It was done.

  I was going to go back out there and get a much-needed delicious Mediterranean-style salad and sandwich from one of my favorite food stops in Phoenix, Olive & Ivy. Feeling better at the thought, I relaxed.

  Once I stopped being hangry, it would all be fine.

  Two

  Apparently, the universe didn’t hate me, because there was a seat free at Olive & Ivy. It was popular, so it didn’t surprise me that there was only one stool left at one of the counters around the small restaurant. The young twentysomething woman sitting next to the open chair looked up as I approached, her dark gaze skimming down my body and back up again. A flirtatious welcome smile lit up her face. Huh. I had hoped her obvious interest meant she would hold the seat for me while I ordered food. I rounded her, feeling her follow the movement. I was just about to ask her to keep the seat for me when the thump of a laptop bag on top of the counter at the open seat caused me to flinch.

  “This seat is taken.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed at the familiar voice.

  No way.

  Nuh-uh!

  No!

  I whirled around and stared up at the source of irritation that had recently entered my life. “Yes, it is. By me!”

  The Scot’s stare was calm, stolidly so, annoyingly so. “Have you bought food yet? Because I have. As a paying customer, I think I take precedence over a tiny, entitled fruitcake with a stick up her arse.”

  I glowered up at the ceiling aka The Universe. “This is not happening.”

  “Aye, ’cause you’re not a fruitcake, talking tae yourself.”