A/N: I wrote, rewrote, wrote again, got stuck, wrote some more. Finally something publishable came to together. Enjoy, kittens.

I was going through a type of cultural schizophrenia. You see, when I'm in Canada I felt American and when I'm in America I felt Canadian. Charles Lindbergh once said, "We Americans are a primitive people. We do not have discipline. Our moral standards are low." Having standards came down to individuality. What could be viewed as a low bar for some was high for others and vice versa.

We could attempt to exercise discipline often and in all things, but sometimes a little impulsivity and self-indulgence was needed for survival.

My point though, I was feeling oddly out of place as my plane touched down at O'Hare International in Chicago, Illinois. I've been to this hub half a dozen times, yet today inexplicably felt as if it were my first. The deluge of people easily swallowed me, and I was no more substantial than a fluff of dandelion as I sped to the next terminal only come to find my connecting flight was delayed.

The one kind of delay I could tolerate was a delay in gratification.

Sulking, I checked in with Dietrich who was at the sister sight of our latest project. Since we had been unable to obtain filming permits at our first choice, a small town in Delaware, things were moved to Port Deposit, Maryland; a locale that was discovered purely by accident. Dietrich and the film's director, Sheldon Reese was able to bury the rusted hatchet between them to work amicably. How? With the use of production assistants delivering messages back and forth since they refused to speak to one another face to face.

Don't you love it when grown men act their age?

It was time that the top dog, yours truly, swept on the scene to bridge the gap so that production wouldn't be delayed, tacking on additional costs.

Dietrich didn't answer so I left him a message and a wild guess as to my estimated time of arrival. I also called Sheldon, but spoke with his assistant relaying the same info. With that out of the way I still had an uncertain amount of time to kill.

I people watched for a moment taking in their style of dress, dialect, how they interacted with the airline staff and other customers. There were some smiling faces, others who were clearly tired and frustrated, and others who had mistaken themselves for celebrities. There were overworked TSA workers who were past done with the redundancy of their jobs, and those a bit too zealous for some customers liking.

I couldn't stay stationary like this forever. I hadn't brought along enough distractions. Already finished the novel I packed, listened to my favorite songs so many times that I was beginning to hate them, and wasn't in the mood to troll Twitter.

Stranded in an airport, a traveler's nightmare. Yes, I understood there were worse fates than simply being stranded when traveling by air.

To pass the time I went to the United Club since I had a membership. Without one it cost fifty bucks to get in.

A hostess appeared; pleasant beauty with a pleasant smile. "Hi, would you like a table?"

"No, I'll have a seat at the bar. Thank you."

"Enjoy."

Someone interesting always sat at the bar.

Rewind to the time of my days being a talent recruiter before becoming a still photographer for an aging writer/producer/director. As a talent recruiter my approach was different, subtle like smoke that you could smell long before you saw. I hit the clubs and restaurants looking specifically for a particular look or vibe and tailored a back story to essentially become a fantasy for my mark. Folks were more willing to listen if they believed you weren't trying to sell them something.

By the end of our conversation they either wanted to come in for a reading of their own accord, after I divulged what I did, or they wanted a date. Depending on my mood I had been amendable to the latter, but not always.

The line wasn't incongruent between realism and make-believe for one who had too open a mind.

Eyeing my prospects, the pickings were plenteous; however, no one struck me just yet.

Today I could be French-Canadian or an American learning French, or simply just French. Was it dishonest and false advertisement possibly bordering on appropriation? We could argue about that for days.

I knew enough French to hold a conversation, was told I had a believable accent. Besides it's been a long time since I've gotten to play. My parents expected me to be serious now that I was a bona fide business owner, and my fiancé—well the unspoken agreement was we'd forsake others for each other. You could take the girl out of the country but not the country out of the girl, and other such colloquialisms. There was no such visible boundary separating you from how you used to be apart from the one erected in your mind, lived in your heart, and demonstrated by your actions.

I said all of that to say, I missed the old me.

Another thought pinged. Perhaps I could pretend to be the person who sent me those letters. I had received another one that I deliberately left unopened in my apartment. I still hadn't told my therapist Camille about that, curious to see if they'd taper off or keep going until…until who knows what. Besides, she would just want to know how they made me feel and what it led to. That was more than obvious. Skype sex and sexting with Tyler.

Being as short as I was I couldn't really see the people hunched over their drinks at the bar, but weaving through the crowd they came into view.

I wedged myself between a guy who needed a shower and a shave and the other who kind of resembled Top Chef judge Tom Colicchio. He regarded me with a nod as he sipped something brown. Probably bourbon or scotch.

His eyes were on me as I settled on the stool and placed my purse on my lap.

"Excusez-moi, il est bondé ici."

Heavy-lidded glassy orbs expanded at the sound of my voice.

"Pardon…Sorry," I giggled like I was half my age. "Coming in from Canada. Takes a while for me to remember…"

"You don't have to explain. That was sexy."

Insert blush and downcast eyes.

The man had a New England accent and smelled of Karl Lagerfeld cologne. He wore a Timex watch and his right ear was pierced.

"Layover or delayed flight?" he broke the ice. Glassy blue eyes assessed me in an appreciative way that made me feel flattered and on guard unanimously.

"Delayed flight that I'm hoping won't turn into a cancellation," I infuse a bit of truth. "You?"

"Layover. Okinawa awaits," he stretched out a hand, a gold band on his middle finger. "Rob Hudson."

Rob's fingers were thick, his touch warm as it enclosed my hand. He scooted on his high chair to give me more room. The space was cramped, intimate, for a reason.

Gauging him I tailored the scene in my mind. Being sensual was second nature, being demure took work for me, but I was sure I could pull it off.

So I went about it by dodging giving my name thankful the bartender slid in front of me, welcoming smile, too cute for words. However, I made sure the expression on my face couldn't read that I was pleased by his aesthetics. I ordered a Manhattan in a soft voice. Rob had yet to let my hand go.

"You can put it on my tab, Noah," Rob said to the barkeep.

"Oh, no," I tugged my hand free, "that's okay."

"I insist," Rob nodded and Noah went to work creating my drink. "They serve food here if you're hungry."

"The drink will be fine. For now. Thank you," I demurred.

"My pleasure…miss…?" Rob trailed off waiting for me to name drop.

"Are you really that interested in what my parents call me?" I angled more toward him aware that the man seated to my right was clearly eavesdropping, and trying to sniff my hair. Piss off, dude.

Rob grinned crookedly, drank some more. He tapped his empty glass on the bar top. Another bartender hit him with a refill.

"You don't want to give me your name it will only force me to make one up."

"Help yourself. I've been called lots of things."

Those glassy blues looked me over again at a leisurely pace. What I was wearing was the least bit provocative, but my undies and bra were from La Perla. And if I didn't know any better I would think that he knew.

My drink arrived interrupting his scrutiny that I must admit was beginning to have a margin of an effect on me. Rob physically was not my type, but he did exude a type of presence I found sexy though it would be hard to explain what exactly made him sexy.

"Merci," I said to the bartender, holding his gaze for a tenth of a second as I wrapped my lips around the rim of the glass. Canadian whiskey, sweet vermouth, and other flavors coursed down my throat, warmed my belly.

"I think I'll call you Mademoiselle Manhattan," Rob grunted and tossed back his shot.

"I like it."

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" Rob tried to entice me to test his generosity. "They make a delicious filet mignon."

"I'm fine, really thank you," pause. "In just these five minutes you've been nicer to me than... never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing. Ask me something to take my mind off things. Please," I pled like I was on the verge of tears.

A notable change happened. Rob was no longer slouching. It was like he had pulled apart his button down to reveal the red 'S' on his chest. He sensed a damsel in distress and was off to the rescue.

"You okay?" the pitch of his tone softened. I nodded and drank. "So what do you do, Mademoiselle Manhattan?"

Slanting Rob with a sidelong glance I toyed with the stem of the martini glass. "If I tell you, you'll probably judge me."

"I won't."

"That's what they say, 'I don't judge' but they do. Consciously, unconsciously. He certainly did."

Rob leaned in, greedy for details because nothing was more entertaining than hearing or watching someone's life fall apart. "Give me his name and address so I can knock his gotdamn teeth in."

That earned genuine laughter from me.

Amid the buzz of conversations, a couple arguing, someone else trying to negotiate sex, beyond that I heard a distinctive voice. It was amazing how your other senses could magnify to pick up the slack of one that's disabled. I had no better explanation for how I could hear his voice, specifically, among the range of voices bleating around me. But I did.

"…there was no miscommunication on my end. I made myself perfectly clear. If that's what you took away…Yeah? Well fuck you, too."

Slowly, I rotated on the stool.

My peace was shattered as was the embargo on my unflappability.

He sat in a corner near the entrance under low lighting. But there was no cloaking those features. His head was angled as he fired up a cigarette.

"—Mademoiselle Manhattan?" I vaguely heard Rob say.

This dude was Future Simon popping up in places where I was. I had no superpower that attracted danger or made anyone I touched manic with lust, yet here he was in this bustling airport in this dark bar. What the fuck?

What he was doing—smoking—didn't bypass my notice either.

I loathed being disobeyed.

As if sensing my disapproval, his gaze jerked away from the butt in his mouth and pierced me.

Guilt and defiance waged war and Damon Salvatore affected a cool expression I was sure could stop a heart.

Rising from the stool my intentions were clear. Rob lightly touched my wrist. Just that quickly I had forgotten all about him.

"It was nice meeting you, Rob but I have to go. Have a safe flight to Okinawa."

Abandoning him, I crossed the parquet floor to Damon. I knew how this probably looked to Rob once he got a good glance at Damon. A pretty woman dumping him for a younger and sleeker model. I could have easily told Rob I was going to say hello to a neighbor, but it wasn't any of his business, and I showed him enough gratitude for the drink. Then again, he might think Damon was the man I had alluded to who gave me problems. He did, but not the made up one I conjured to go with my unscripted teleplay.

When I came to a stop on the opposite side of the table from Damon, I could actually hear him sucking in air and slowly releasing it.

He sat back, extending his right arm along the back of the chair he pulled adjacent to him. Tiny yet visible black whiskers covered his jaw and mouth in a five o'clock shadow. Coupled with his raven tresses that were short in the back and sides, longer in the front, Damon was a rugged yet succulent mess inviting you to climb on his lap, straddle him.

Why were athletes even ones that were retired so fucking hot?

My pulse beat everywhere and as I zeroed in on his jugular, his pulse was beating just as fast as mine.

We were on one accord.

"You've broken my rule." The airline's as well. You couldn't smoke in their facility. I eyed the butt in his hand, the curling smoke. "I hate that. I'm disappointed in you, Damon."

His glacial irises glinted, he scowled. "I would care if I was seeking the approval of a complete fucking stranger."

Ouch. Guess someone was still smarting over my refusal to cough up my number.

I wasn't a masochist so I wouldn't linger in hopes he'd stop being mean and talk to me like a civilized adult. Curling my fingers along the strap of my handbag, I made a step toward the exit.

"Wait!" Damon practically jumped out of his seat. "Wait. I'm sorry. That was rude." He flicked the cigarette in the unfinished drink on his table.

"Yeah that was rude."

Damon rounded the Cherrywood table and pulled out the chair I had been standing behind. "Join me. Please."

I refused to take him up on his offer, refused to acknowledge that I absolutely wanted to.

He must have gotten that message and changed the topic. "Where are you flying to?"

I have no idea why I told him. It just came out. "This little place called Port Deposit. It's in Maryland. After that, I'm on a flight to Germany."

"Germany? I've been there a few times."

"How'd you like it?"

"My time there…wasn't as debauched as I wanted it to be," he grinned.

It was a grin I didn't return. "Where are you going?" I inquired.

"Cambridge, Massachusetts for a charity hockey game," he stared at me. "I used to play."

I fought off smiling this time, "Were you any good?"

Damon shrugged. "I was all right."

"I would think making it to the pros meant you were better than all right."

His dark brows went airborne. "You know I was a pro player?"

"I was made aware that night at the bar."

Damon grew quiet. "I still think about that even when I know I shouldn't. I can't even look at a pack of cigarettes without thinking about it."

"So why did I catch you smoking?"

His eyes went half-mast. The veil was down. Whoever he had been talking to on the phone was probably the reason he delved into cancer-causing behavior, breaking our vow to never smoke again. Now I was intrigued and I'm sure my body language was saying that.

"Stress," Damon said after a thoughtful pause yet the answer was evasive at best.

Uh-oh, he had attracted attention. A few people tried to inconspicuously circle with their phones in front of their faces. Damon was oblivious to it, built up his immunity to the stops and stares, finger pointing, whispering. No one had been brave enough to approach, but all it would take was one enthusiastic fan who wouldn't be denied and then the locusts would swarm.

This famed ice hockey player pulled me to a quiet corner, angling his body in such a way that if you were looking at him from the back you wouldn't be able to see me. I thought of how we looked, framed it in my mind. The height difference, the contrast of how the light reflected off his skin but was absorbed into mine.

"I'm here in Chicago for a couple of days before taking off to Cambridge. Meetings, bureaucratic stuff."

He downplayed the significance of him being in Chicago but I could read between the lines. Damon was here for work to expand his empire. Playing coy was unnecessary because in one way or another we all did the same—expansion of our empire, I mean. Whether it was corporate, self-destructive, entrepreneurial, medical, what have you, we were stewards and bosses. The difference in success was being aware of it. Owning it.

"You're telling me this because…?"

Damon shuffled from foot to foot and then grew incredibly still. "This is our fifth encounter, the second that's taken place outside of our residence. We're not in the same country. What are the odds of running into each other at an airport? I know how this looks."

"Like you're stalking me."

The sound of Damon's laughter was the kind that rippled across your skin. "I could accuse you of the same thing. I lived in our building long before you. It was you who crashed into me…"

My cheeks heated. "Can we never mention that particular episode again?"

"I thought it was memorable. It was you who showed up at my door bearing food."

"Yeah, yeah."

Damon bit into his top lip, giving me they eyes. "How much longer are we going to ignore fate?"

Fate. I wonder if she also went by the name of Miss Josephine.

"Maybe I'm happy with living in denial," I shrugged a shoulder.

"That's funny because I didn't take you for someone who cowered."

My nostrils flared and my hand twitched. "I don't," I stated brusquely.

"I didn't think you did."

"Yeah, because you know me so well."

"I don't know you at all. I like what I've seen."

For one harrowing moment I almost asked Damon: Can you see me better than Tyler can? I cast that thought down.

"On that note, I need to check to see if my flight is still delayed or cancelled."

"This is fate, Bonnie, you and I both know you're not going anywhere. At least not until tomorrow."

Dang it I hate when people I'm attracted to are right.

My flight was grounded which meant I had to reschedule for the following day. Luck was on my side as I no longer had to be diverted to Charlotte—as originally planned—before heading to BWI in Baltimore. I was on a nonstop flight heading out at 7 a.m.

Now I needed lodgings.

Damon was a bit too pleased with himself. "I'm staying at a friend's condo. You can crash with me. I promise to keep it strictly business. Platonic."

Doubt was mortar to my obstinate brick. "Strictly business and platonic?"

He crossed his heart and stretched out his hand. "I'm a man of my word. Just business."

Destroying souls was business to the devil as well.

Damon drove like Usain Bolt out of O'Hare.

He kept it business as promised letting music serve as conversation.

The condo was clean, modern, industrial bordering on institutional. It would be hailed as one of the best decorated places in some interior design magazine mostly because of its view and location.

I was shown to the spare bedroom that was downstairs. The master suite was a level above. After plugging in my charger I stashed my switchblade beneath the pillow. I never traveled without it. Locking the door I took a shower and donned some lounging attire. By the time my grooming was done and had a quick confab with Dietrich, I found Damon handing money to a delivery man. I smelled Thai.

I should be alarmed by how comfortable I felt. We were strangers far from home enjoying the creature comforts of someone else's pad. I should be cranky and tired that my trip had been extended, but no. I was too much like a child with a new toy ready to be entertained.

As a distraction, I perused the books on a built-in shelf while he arranged plates, silverware, and glasses on the dining room table. Damon was meticulous. Something about his movements reminded me of my waiter from a few weeks back. Adroit fluidity with a careful eye for detail; every part of his being in tune with the task at hand. Damon even went so far as to light the candles on the table. He finally took notice of me, blew out the match. He crooked a finger.

"You're going above and beyond when it comes to hospitality," I commented and sank into the chair he pulled out for me.

Damon smirked, lingered behind me, his mouth almost at my ear. "I hope you're enjoying it."

I was and smiled. "Thank you for this and for letting me crash."

"Of course. What are neighbors for?"

I eyed the table, how everything was perfect. "So, you took etiquette classes?"

Damon sat down at my nine o'clock after filing our glasses with wine, "My grandmother raised me not wolves. Well, I take that back. My father certainly was a mutt."

I laughed a little, curious about his upbringing, what that must have been like. I didn't go there.

"But it's interesting…that saying 'raised by wolves'," I reached for the honey ginger duck. "Wolves are pack and family oriented. They hunt together, live together, protect one another's young. Some humans can't do that."

Damon conceded with a nod as he spooned Pad Thai on his plate. "How right you are."

We piled our plates, took that first bite, savored the taste.

"So your father is a mutt…what does that make you?" I asked.

"Mutt Jr. I don't come from nobility in any sense of the word." There was an overtone of darkness I heard in his voice that flashed across his face. It was gone when he looked at me. "What about you?"

"Strict, rigid, boogie until I got in touch with another side of my psyche."

Damon picked up his glass, took a sip. "Do tell," he resumed eating.

I stared at him a moment, rubbing my index finger beneath the rim of my lip. Damon paused in mid-chew, watched. "We don't know each other that well for me to tell you that. That's info earned, not given."

His right eyebrow went on a hike. "How is it earned?" his voice took on a graveled quality.

Placing my elbows on the table I leaned forward. Damon mimicked me. His face…ridiculous with its symmetry. "Patience. Surrender. Trust."

His throat worked as he swallowed. I don't know why I found that sexy. "Surrender? Surrender what?"

"That's for me to determine."

"And for me to comply?"

"Now you're getting it." I sipped my Moscato and switched topics. "Do you miss playing hockey?"

Damon easily rolled with the punches. "Yes and no. It takes a toll on the body but I loved the adrenaline and god-like high it gave me. Ever seen a game?"

"Never."

"Know how to skate?" Damon forked Pad Pak Boong into his mouth.

"I've only been ice skating a few times. I'm not very good at it."

"I could teach you," he offered.

"I'll think about it."

"You know what I used to do for a living. What do you do?"

I told Damon what I didn't tell Rob, went into detail, even leaked the latest script I was interested in producing, a psychosexual thriller. A majority of what my company pumped out so far delved into the condition of black women. As it says in the good book: the harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few. My target demographic ached for movies where black women were the center; however finding studios willing to produce and create such films was few. So I took matters into my own hands and started my own production company.

Damon nodded, seemingly impressed.

We lapsed into silence to eat. This was my first time in a long time eating with a man I wasn't trying to canoodle to invest funds in my company, related to me, an associate, or Tyler. It was odd and had all of the makings of a first date. I waited for the pang of guilt that I was dishonoring my fiance to jerk me out of the chair, push me into the room to collect my things, and shove me outside the door. It never came. I rationalized it as we were wont to do when our conscience became uncomfortable. My being here wasn't due to ulterior motives, to start an illicit affair. I was here for one night under the grace of someone's hospitality. The end.

I promptly drained my wine and Damon promptly refilled it without question. I suspected he found pleasure in serving a woman.

I thought back to right before we left the airport. We had been standing on the curb waiting for the right time to cross to the parking lot to collect the rental. He had braced his arm in front of me like a guard rail as a few cars drove by, and then lightly placed his hand on the dip of my spine as we continued onward. Damon had opened the passenger side door for me, stored my things in the trunk, and waited until I was buckled in before peeling off.

Either he was courteous by rigorous training, or he was simply trying to impress me, it was too early to tell. But I knew one thing, I liked it.

I blurted, "Why are you single?"

Damon snorted and gave me a look I couldn't read. "Who said I was?"

Good comeback. "So there's been a Mrs. Damon Salvatore all along?"

"Yeah," he muttered dryly. "In a coffin maybe."

Okay.

"I'm single," Damon said. "Have been for a while."

"By choice?"

"Involuntarily. Work keeps me busy, but what I want…that's been harder to find."

I wouldn't ask him what he wanted because he told me that on his birthday. Plus, there was no telling where that conversation might go if I were to broach it again.

"How's your food?" I asked after a brief respite.

"Delicious."

"Is there any dessert?"

"There's more wine and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts."

I wiggled in pleasure. "Yum. A man after my own heart," I replied cheekily.

Damon fell back against his chair, twirled his fork but didn't shovel anything past his teeth. He looked almost sullen. The speed of his mood change was a red flag.

"What?" I said.

"I should want tomorrow to come," his gaze shifted toward me. "I don't."

"Damon…"

He lifted a hand, sat up straight. "Never mind. I'm tired and quite possibly drunk. I need some air."

Damon left the table and stepped out on the patio. I had no idea what was going on with him. I gave him a ten minute reprieve, and when he didn't return to finish his meal, I joined him on the terrace. The earlier humidity had settled to a less stifling haze, but it was there nonetheless as a precursor that summer started in two days.

Coming to stand beside him, I lightly touched his arm. Damon didn't jump or flinch. He actually melted into my touch. Slowly he peered at me from orbs that were once again at half-mast. It was weird but I knew if I draped a hand over his heart right this second its beat would match mine.

Unconsciously we aligned our bodies toward one another. With Tyler I never had to lift my chin that much to be able to look him in the eye. With Damon, my head was tilted at a near hundred and eighty degree angle.

He grazed my cheek with his knuckles, "I want to say something but I don't know if I should."

"Say it."

Damon waited a beat. "Tell me to stop wanting you."

My stomach flipped. "Stop wanting me."

"Say it like you mean it."

"St…"

"Goodnight, Bonnie," Damon cut me off and left abruptly once again.

A/N: Thank you for reading this chapter and for reviewing last chapter. Let me know how you feel about this one. Please. With a cherry and chocolate and Damon on top.