One Like Away (The Burrow Series Book 1), page 1
ONE LIKE AWAY
BECCA FALL
Copyright © 2025 by Becca Fall
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Yummy Books
Editing by Emily Keyes at The Romance Genre Specialist
Editing and proofreading by Emily Lawrence at Lawrence Editing
CONTENTS
1. Macey
2. Noah
3. Macey
4. Noah
5. Macey
6. Noah/Macey
7. Macey
8. Noah
9. Macey
10. Noah
11. Noah/Macey
12. Noah
13. Macey/Noah
14. Macey
15. Noah
16. Macey
17. Noah
18. Noah
19. Macey
20. Noah/Macey
21. Noah
22. Macey/Noah
23. Macey/Noah
24. Macey/Noah
25. Macey
26. Noah
27. Macey
28. Noah
29. Macey
30. Noah
Author’s Note
About the Author
To everyone who feels like they have no idea what they’re doing with their lives. I can relate.
1
MACEY
The Chicago airport was chaos. Rolling suitcases, last-minute gate changes, and people walking at the speed of molasses directly in front of me. I dodged a man who had come to a complete stop in the middle of the walkway, causing me to spill the remainder of my cold coffee onto my shoes.
One day, I’d experience air travel without feeling like a contestant on Survivor. At least I’d be home soon enough, where I could stretch out on my couch and eat snacks that weren’t individually wrapped in crinkly plastic.
If you had asked me where I’d visit on my first trip to California, I would have answered Los Angeles, San Francisco, or even Disneyland. Not Fort Bragg. Honestly, I had never heard of the city until two weeks ago, when an email from their public relations team appeared in my work inbox.
Such was the life of a travel writer—I didn’t get to pick my press trips. Hopefully, in the future, I’d have the ability to be selective. For now, I was a bottom-tier blogger, meaning I didn’t often get invitations to events like the Whale Fest in Fort Bragg. And when I did receive one, it was either unpaid or they expected me to cover the costs of travel. In this economy? Definitely not.
There were worse places I could have been sent on a press trip. For example, a remote island without any cell service. In front of the Eiffel Tower, forced to watch couples younger than me get engaged. Antarctica in the middle of a penguin march. Say what you will, but I didn’t believe those birds were as nice as they looked.
My hand tightened around the strap of my backpack as I followed the signs for baggage claim, but then, I spotted her.
A woman, gliding toward the airport lounge.
Full-on gliding. Not weaving around suitcases or getting shoulder-checked by an overly ambitious businessman. She wore a crisp white blouse, perfectly tailored trousers, and heels that looked both expensive and non-lethal—a rare combination. Her hair was styled in some effortlessly chic way that made me hyper-aware of the fact that a few minutes ago, I had used the airport hand dryer to fix my bangs.
The woman stepped up to the lounge entrance, nodded at the attendant like they were old friends, and disappeared inside, swallowed by a world of complimentary drinks and whisper-quiet luxury. I imagined her settling into a plush armchair, ordering an espresso martini without hesitation, and opening a hardcover book. After all, a woman with a hardcover book at the airport had her life together.
One day, that would be me. One day, I’d strut into an airport lounge with the confidence of someone who wasn’t actively sweating under the weight of her own luggage. I’d skip the espresso martini and chug a Diet Coke out of habit, but best believe I’d try every available snack.
That would signify my career as a successful travel blogger. I’d own my own blog. Cover events bigger than whale migration. Have my people call other people’s people. Minions would clammer to do my dirty laundry.
For now, though, I was here—Chicago O’Hare, in all its unhinged glory—standing next to a guy loudly FaceTiming his mother about how TSA took his snow globe.
I snapped a quick selfie and sent it to the group chat that had blown up while I was in the air.
The Burrow Bitches
Kira: Yay you’re home!
Ariadne: Let’s have dinner soon so you can tell us about the trip!
Britney: did you tell the whales I love them?
My three best friends never failed to make me smile, even when I was a sweaty, disgusting mess who had just spent the weekend chasing whales and topped it off with a whale-themed 5K. At least I enjoyed running.
My phone vibrated with an incoming call from Kira, my roommate and oldest friend.
“Hi.” I tucked my phone between my cheek and shoulder, fishing through my purse for some gum. “I’m still at the airport, but I’m bringing home a Biscoff cookie and a bag of pretzels.”
Kira cheered. “I’m honored that you saved me your elite airline snacks.”
“Just call me your economy sugar momma.”
“We’ll workshop the name,” said Kira. “Do you need me to come get you from the airport?”
“How?” I laughed. “Neither of us has cars.”
Who needed a car in Chicago when you had two working feet, a CTA pass, and the sheer determination to power-walk faster than traffic?
“Well, no, but I could show up in an Uber and pretend to pick you up that way.”
While I was new to out-of-state assignments, she had yet to offer to meet me at the airport.
“What’s really going on, Kira?”
She sighed. “Nothing, I swear. I just forgot how quiet the apartment is without you.”
“Are you calling me loud?”
“Well, I—”
“Oh, shit.”
I had just decided to stop staring at the airport lounge like a raccoon locked out of a restaurant when suddenly someone emerged. It wasn’t the beautiful, perfect woman from earlier. No, it was someone much worse.
I could almost see the confusion on Kira’s face. The way her lips turned down and her brown eyes narrowed.
“What’s shit?”
“Noah Hansley is here.”
Oh, God, he wasn’t alone either.
Seconds later, the perfect woman exited the lounge and flagged Noah down to ask him for a selfie. I attempted to hide behind a pole as I watched the whole incident go down. Unfortunately, the woman was immune to Noah’s charms.
My neck cracked in two places when I peered around the pole to watch them. Should I visit a chiropractor about that? Wasn’t twenty-four too young to need the services of a chiropractor?
“What is that Instagram bad boy wannabe doing there?” Kira asked.
“No idea.” Probably relaxing and drinking martinis before boarding his first-class flight. “Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll see you at home, okay?”
Noah Hansley was the last person I expected to see at the airport, but I shouldn’t be surprised. The thought of him relaxing in classy airport lounges while I suffered in public areas made my eye twitch. It wasn’t fair.
Must be nice to be a tall, pretty boy who could get anything he wanted. Maybe it wasn’t so much the face as it was his million followers on Instagram.
Not that I kept track of his follower count. It frustrated me that all influencers had to do was show up at an event, snap a few selfies, and share a clever caption.
Meanwhile, I spent countless hours researching and writing long, in-depth articles. How was I rewarded? With smaller corporate checks and fewer press trip invites.
Noah had made it very clear that he didn’t like me. Which, honestly, didn’t bother me. The problem was that he didn’t respect me. When we met a year ago, we completely hit it off and even talked about doing a collaboration. I had DM’d him some ideas, which he never responded to. He ghosted me completely.
For a young woman trying to build her career, it was frustrating to be denied a basic level of respect from a man showered in it for just existing.
Noah’s adoring fans on social media may love him, but he was an asshole. Most of his fans were into the smooth, didn’t-give-a-fuck-about-anything bad boy image. I didn’t get it.
The last thing I wanted to do was try to play nice with Noah. We usually ignored each other, so if he knew I was here, that was what he would—
Oh, he was looking in this direction. It was fine. He’d look away any minute and go back to pretending I was lesser than him.
Except he didn’t.
I blinked once. Then twice. Pretty sure my vision faded for a moment there, but when it became clear again, it was Noah’s bright green eyes I was looking at. So bright they were almost yellow. Like a warm spring day.
He took one step forward in my direction. On instinct, I dropped the remainder of my coffee cup into the tra
Not taking that risk.
Once I was safe in my new haven—baggage claim 7—I leaned against the wall and waited for my polka dot luggage to come swirling down. Unlocking my phone, I tried to catch up on all the social media posts I’d neglected while working this weekend.
I was grateful that I was invited—whale-y grateful, if you will—but I was so exhausted. Between writing about whales, spending long hours by the sea trying to capture the perfect video, and running, I hardly stopped moving all weekend.
I opened Instagram. I ignored my notifications, aka fifteen memes sent from Britney when she was supposed to be studying, and mindlessly scrolled through my favorite travel bloggers. Clever captions, cute selfies, and gorgeous sceneries. Rinse and repeat.
Don’t do it, Macey.
Don’t even think about doing it.
…I’m gonna do it.
Against my will, my fingers typed in Noah’s handle: @noahhans.
Was it cool now to shorten last names? @MaceyMon could be my new handle. No, that was lame. Maybe I could shorten my first name, but then I’d sound like a weapon.
Hating myself more with every passing minute, I Instagram-stalked Noah Hansley. I didn’t know him that well—we’d only ever had one civilized conversation—but he knew how to make a good feed of photos and videos.
Technically speaking, his photos could use some work. They were choppy and in need of color editing. But his followers cared more about the subject than the quality of the photos. I could see why. Noah was…hot. Unfairly so.
Toffee-colored hair complemented his green eyes, and the strands were short yet wavy. He had a sharp jawline, with sculpted cheekbones that drew your gaze all the way up to his dark eyebrows. In every photo, he looked comfortable. Cocky. Like he was the center of attention and he knew it. His build was athletic but more like a runner than a weightlifter.
I bet I could outrun him.
I froze on an old photo of him in front of Chicago’s most famous landmark, the Bean. There, in the background corner, was a younger me. My hair was a lot shorter back then—I’d let it grow to the longest it had ever been since, mid-back, and while it had been a pain to keep it dyed blonde, I loved it.
“Is that your boyfriend?” a middle-aged woman with a narrow nose, one she clearly was good at inserting into other people’s business, asked. She craned her neck to look closer at my phone. “He’s very handsome.”
“No,” I said, leaning away from her. “And he’s not that handsome.”
I accidentally bumped into the teenager next to me, and her glare sent me wheeling in the other direction. Back into the older woman. God, teenagers were terrifying.
The teen shamelessly looked at my phone. “No, he’s hot. I’d date him.”
“He is way too old for you,” I said. “Stick with the frat bros for now, okay? It’s a rite of passage.”
Noah was only three years older than me, but still.
“You’re not dating him, then?” The older woman seemed horrified by this reality.
“Nope.”
The last time I dated someone considered an influencer, it ended in disaster. It was best to stay far, far away from men with a checkmark next to their names on social media.
My comment didn’t faze the teen queen, who pulled out her phone to ask, “What’s his handle? I’m going to follow him.”
The woman on the right did the same, except at a slower pace. “Oh, me too!”
I face-palmed. Gaining Noah followers was not part of my goal for today.
When the woman said, “Sorry, I can’t read that small font,” and reached for my phone, I tugged it back. She had a strong grip, but I grew up with a cell phone and had stronger fingers.
I told her his handle and pulled my phone out of her grasp. Only to accidentally double tap the photo on the screen. Shit.
I just liked Noah’s photo from a year ago. Permanent proof that I was online stalking him. What should I do? Let it be? Unlike it and hope the notification disappeared? Unlike it and like his most recent photo instead?
I let the like remain and prayed he got so many notifications he wouldn’t notice. We didn’t even follow each other on social media. He probably wouldn’t recognize my profile anyways.
Yep, it would be fine.
If things went my way, I’d never see Noah Hansley again.
2
NOAH
A special kind of existential dread set in when you realized everyone else had grabbed their bags, and you were still standing there like an abandoned puppy at the pound.
Patience wasn’t one of my virtues, I’d admit.
The baggage carousel hummed to life once again, and I surged forward, hoping mine would appear. I was afraid I’d missed it. After my flight from Los Angeles, I had to stop by the airport lounge to collect the credit card I had forgotten a few days earlier.
A familiar head of blonde hair also crept closer to the carousel. Of course Macey Monroe would be one of the few people still waiting for her luggage.
We’d attended a few of the same events in the past—restaurant openings, local festivals, holiday celebrations—and the way she looked at me each time was painfully familiar. It was the same way people look at someone they don’t respect.
Macey’s attitude represented all the assumptions the world made about me: that someone with good looks fell into being an influencer and never learned how to exercise their brain.
They were right about the first half.
I hated social media. Hated the anonymity it gave bullies, hated the insecurity issues it gave everyone, and hated the way it turned life into a game of competition. But I had fallen into it, and it was challenging to claw your way out of a lucrative opportunity when someone in your life depended on you.
Macey lifted a blue-and-yellow suitcase off the carousel. Fuck. Not that this was a competition, but she had definitely just won.
Before I could berate myself for taking too long in the lounge, causing me to miss my luggage, I saw my black suitcase making its lap around the carousel. By the time I grabbed it, Macey had disappeared.
Outside, the sky had gone full Chicago February—gray, growling, and cold enough to slap. The wind sliced through my jacket like it had a personal vendetta. A few sunny days in LA had nearly tricked me into forgetting just how rude winter could be back home.
I stopped by the taxi stand and pulled out my phone, because apparently staring into the void is frowned upon in public. Scrolling felt like the lesser evil. Yeah, I hated social media, but it still paid the bills. I uploaded a story announcing my safe landing, then watched it struggle to post over the airport’s sad excuse for Wi-Fi.
Honestly, a small part of me missed airplane mode. Something about being unreachable at 30,000 feet made it easier to imagine a version of my life where I didn’t chronicle every second of it for strangers online. If I left this path behind, though, what was left? Who would I even be? A college dropout with a skincare routine strong enough to carry a personality?
The ironic part was I had options. Too many. My savings bought me freedom, sure, but also paralysis. It was like being handed a menu with a hundred items, none of which looked appetizing. Damned if you do, damned if you scroll through job listings at 2:00 a.m. wondering if goat yoga instructor could be a real career.
Only a few photos on my feed updated. A picture of my little sister, Daphne, studying at the library with her friends. A gym workout routine from another Chicago influencer I followed. And a shared post of a whale.
Wait, what?
I squinted. It wasn’t just a whale—it was Macey’s photo of a whale. Shared by a lifestyle influencer I vaguely knew. Of course it had the perfect golden-hour lighting, that moody travel-blogger filter, and just the right amount of poetic nonsense in the caption. I had to give her credit: the girl knew how to take a photo.
Too bad she only posted them to her personal accounts instead of pairing them with the snooze-fest articles she wrote for Roamer’s Digest. Then again, maybe I was the only one who found them boring. Not that I read them often. Just sometimes. When I couldn’t sleep.
“I knew I should’ve taken Kira up on her offer,” a voice grumbled behind me. “Stupid Chicago taxis.”
