Christmas at Terminal 104

By Irene Micheals

Being stuck at the airport can change more than travel plans. Kira just wants to get home for the holidays after months abroad. But the weather has other plans. All planes are grounded, and the hotels are full. Kira has to hang out in an airport terminal with a group of strangers, and it's almost Christmas Eve. She's furiously searching for some alternative way to cross an ocean and feeling a bit sorry for herself when a gorgeous Irishman named Ryan sits beside her. Maybe being stuck isn't so bad. When a teenager in the terminal suggests a game to pass the time, Kira figures, why not? Then the kid chooses Truth or Dare. Well, at least it isn't Seven Minutes in Heaven. Until Ryan gets dared to kiss Kira. Now the race is on to get home in time for Christmas Eve with her heart intact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Irene Micheals
• Release date: Oct 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201887711

Book preview

Chapter 1

My foot slips on the icy sidewalk, and I almost crash to the ground. Only a death grip on the handle of my wheeled suitcase saves me that embarrassing fate.

I bite back a curse, then swing my head around, already embarrassed that I may have been overheard. My grandmother’s voice rings in my ears: A lady doesn’t need to swear to get her thoughts across, Kira.

Well, I’m not trying to get my thoughts across to anyone. I’m trying to stay on my feet, but the sidewalk has turned into an ice-skating rink.

Still, Gramma’s words echoing in my mind stab at the guilt that’s always only barely under the surface, and I duck my head and glance around. Luckily, everyone near enough to have possibly heard me seems engrossed in their own hurried movements. That’s a relief and not too surprising. People near airports are often rushing.

I straighten, still clutching the well-padded suitcase that contains everything I brought with me to Dublin six months ago, as well as all the stuff I’ve acquired since I’ve been here. I had to get pretty creative with my packing skills to squeeze it all in, but I hate checking bags. Traveling light, with just a carry-on, has become like something of a challenge to me. And I’m just stubborn enough to take it to the extreme and eschew bigger suitcases, no matter what.

A miserable, icy drizzle falls, and I pull my rain jacket tighter over my hair. It’s the same weather that’s afflicted Dublin for the past two weeks. Two weeks and one day ago, there was sunshine for half a day. Before that, rain for more days than I remember.

I push a chunk of hair out of my eyes and under the hood, then wince as I realize my mistake instantly. My mittens are made of Irish wool, and they’ll frizz my hair up like I’ve gone down a plastic kids’ slide. Plus, that chunk will never stay where I put it, anyway. That dark chunk has a mind of its own, and its mind is always working contrary to mine.

Sure enough, the errant fuzzy lock drifts back over my face a hot second later, tickling my nose. Annoyed, I puff air at it, grit my teeth as it plops right back, and inch forward, this time sliding my feet along instead of taking proper steps.

I scan the area again, but there still isn’t anyone interested in my less-than-graceful movement toward the airport doors. I push the sweater back from my left wrist and glance at Gramma’s delicate, pale pink watch. A small shriek escapes from my lips. I have less than twenty minutes to get to my terminal.

I grab the suitcase handle so hard I’m sure my knuckles are white inside the wool mittens and kick it into high gear. Which, in this case, means I’m scooting forward at a speed of maybe ten feet a minute in an awkward sort of gait that must seem to onlookers like a weird interpretive dance. I glance around.

Okay, people are staring now.

I’m the only one having any trouble walking on the ice, so the fact that I’m using my suitcase like a kid would use a skate trainer is drawing chuckles from the surrounding Dubliners.

Sorry, Gramma. I don’t care if I make a scene right now.

As much as I’ve loved being in Ireland, I don’t want to be stuck here for Christmas.

It feels like it takes ten minutes to cross the sidewalk and get into the building, but I make it and fist-pump the air when my feet are no longer on ice, and I can walk forward normally.

But then I see the mass of people milling about and groan.

At least I thought to print my tickets early, so I don’t have to wait in that line. I’ll have to remember to tell Gramma that danged internet did something good for me. Not that it’ll matter. I tell her every time the internet helps me, but she still hates it.

I sprint to the security area and get in line behind a couple with two kids. I’d lay odds on them being Americans like me, but they obviously haven’t been in Ireland as long. They seem bewildered and frantic as they shuffle papers between them. It’s obvious they’re trying to make sure everything’s ready for getting through security.

While the couple bickers, the younger of their girls, a cute kid with blonde ringlets under a pink knit cap, peers up at me, grins, and then sticks her tongue out. I chuckle, pause, then stick my tongue out right back. But, just to one-up the kiddo, I also put a thumb on each side of my head and wiggle all ten fingers. The child giggles, but the adult woman with her sees my funny face too, and she gathers the little girl closer to her side. Yep, definitely an American.

Hi, I venture. The child looks so much like this woman, they’re almost certainly related. Both have round faces, bright blue eyes, and blonde hair. She’s really sweet. I gesture toward the girl, who looks about five years old. I’m a teacher back in Michigan.

The woman’s features relax, and she smiles and gives her young daughter a squeeze. Oh, that’s so nice. What grade?

First. I’ve just been here in Dublin studying for my Master’s degree, but I’m more than ready to get back home. I’ve had a wonderful time here and learned a lot, and I still have to write my thesis before school starts in the fall, but I want to get back to my family in time for Christmas. I imagine Gramma, her face beaming and arms open when she greets me back at my family’s farmhouse. Plus, I can’t go much longer without some of my grandmother’s special hot chocolate. Christmas Eve isn’t Christmas Eve without Gramma’s hot chocolate and frosted sugar cookies. It’s my favorite day of the year. Even before I got old enough for Gramma to slip some schnapps in my cocoa.

Mama, can we have some hot chocolate? The girl who stuck her tongue out at me pulls on her mom’s jacket.

We’re running too late right now, Chelsea. Maybe on the plane if they have some. The woman regards me again. We’re heading to Detroit too. We live just north of there. The line moves forward a few feet, and I grab my suitcase’s handle and pull it along with me.

Yeah, and we have to go back to our stupid small town for Christmas instead of staying in Dublin where it’s actually fun. It’s the couple’s older child. Her hands are stuffed in her pockets, and a pout accompanies her grumpy words.

Her mother sighs. We have to go home, Trudy. We can’t afford to stay here forever. Dad and I need to go back to work, and you’ve missed enough school. But I’m glad you’ve had a nice vacation. She rolls her eyes and mouths to me, She’s thirteen, in a way that’s obviously meant to answer any questions I may have about Trudy’s attitude.

It’s nice to meet you, I say to the teenager. Trudy grunts back and examines her feet. And you, Chelsea. The girl grins and ducks her face behind her mom’s arm.

I’m Cat Fisher, and this is my husband, Eric. He looks up from his paperwork, harried expression unwavering, and gives a quick grin. We shake hands all around, and then the Fishers move to the front of the line, and their attention’s consumed with getting through security.

At least talking to the family passed the time in line. As soon as the Fishers are through, it’s my turn to take my shoes off, wrestle my suitcase onto the conveyor belt, rummage through my pockets to find my keys and cell phone and put them in a bowl, and then walk through the metal detector. I gather my stuff on the other side and glance at my watch again. Five minutes. I check my tickets and then search for a sign to show me where terminal 104 is. I catch a glimpse of Chelsea Fisher’s pink hat disappearing around a corner to my left, grab my suitcase handle, and power-walk that direction.

Once I’m around the corner, I find another sign. It points down a long hallway with a moving walkway on one side. I glance at my watch again and decide to skip the slow-moving conveyor belt and sprint around it instead. Movement outside a large bank of windows on my left catches my attention as I jog past. A heavy, steady snow has replaced the ice-cold drizzle that was falling twenty minutes ago. The temperature outside must have dropped. I’m glad to be inside the airport now.

A sudden noise makes me look over at the moving walkway. It’s Chelsea, squealing and waving as I run past the Fishers. I cross my eyes and bob my head around to make the girl laugh again, then realize it wasn’t such a good idea when