“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I twist in my seat to grab the soft cotton jacket hanging off the back seat of Katy’s car. I hug it to my chest, inhaling Katy’s fruity perfume clinging to the material. It’s comforting, and I can’t help but think I might wear it during the flight, too. I know it’ll be big on me. Katy’s short and slim, but where she’s been blessed by the boob Gods, I’m mostly flat-chested and almost entirely without curves. “I promise I’ll bring it home safe.”
Katy smirks, one eyebrow raised, and she pulls into the drop-off zone outside the terminal. With a sigh, I throw open the door and heftmyself out, dragging my feet as I round the car to retrieve my suitcase. Katy joins me on the curb.
“You’ll be fine, Roo.” She squeezes my shoulders before pulling me into a long hug. “Promise. I’ll be here in a few days to pick you up.”
And then she’s gone, the lights on her car blinking as she merges into traffic and drives away, leaving me to face the music. But first, I have to get through airport security.
One ‘randomly’ searched bag and two coffees later, I step onto the aircraft to find Amie at the boarding door, hazel eyes twinkling as she greets an endless stream of passengers and directs them to their seats.
“Excuse me, Sweet Thing,” I say, throwing my arms around her neck. “Weren’t you supposed to be on your way to Dubai today?”
“I swapped,” she laughs. “Stuck with me today, I’m afraid.”
“What a shame,” I tease. I’m glad. I’m grateful, even. Despite how frequently I fly between home in London and our offices in New York and Austin, I’m not a great flier, and having Amie on the plane with me is always a comfort. She checks my boarding card and points me across the narrow galley to turn left—into business class, of course, because I’m a bougie business traveller. It’s a perk of the job, and one I’m planning to take full advantage of with a glass or two of champagne and a lay-flat seat all the way from London to New York.
I settle into my suite with not just a glass of champagne, but orange juice too for a full mimosa experience, and after we take off, I pull the suite’s privacy door closed and pull my laptop from its plush purple sleeve.
After ten minutes of catching up on asinine emails from company executives, I slam it closed, lower my seat into a bed position, and close my eyes.
Fuck, I need a drink. My two days in New York City have been spent not doing my actual job but cleaning up the absolute clusterfuck of a mess my company’s CEO has made. We’re about to be sued for unfair dismissal, libel, three different counts of copyright theft, and about a hundred other things. The worst part of it is, every single suit filed against us is legitimate. I warned the company directors that this would happen, but they refused to listen, and now we all have to lie in this shitty bed they’ve made. Again. Sometimes, I wonder how this company still runs, let alone how it remains on the Fortune 500 list.
But what do I know? I’m just the international IP specialist.
The bartender slides a margarita towards me, along with an extra tequila shot. I forego the supplied salt and lime and down the shot neat, savouring the way it burns all the way down my throat and chest, into my belly. I’m just bringing the margarita to my lips when the empty barstool beside me fills with an imposing figure.
“Whiskey, please. Whatever you’ve got. Double—hell, make it a triple.”
I glance to the side, surreptitiously checking out the man with the smoothest, richest voice I’ve ever heard. His face is shielded by the brim of his cowboy hat, until he plucks it from his head and places it down on the bar. His eyes remain downcast, but his profile is stunning in silhouette. Strong jaw, long eyelashes, dark hair that curls just slightly at the tips of his ears. My heart stutters. He’sbeautiful.
And he’s looking up at me.
Fuck.
I swallow half of my drink in one mouthful.
“You look like you’ve had a day, too,” he says, a wry chuckle lifting his lips in a half smile. The barest hint of a dimple pops on his cheek. Jesus Christ, I need another drink.
“You want another?” he asks, nodding his head in the direction of my drink. It’s almost empty already, but my mouth is so dry. It’s funny, because my underwear is getting wetter by the second under this stranger’s gaze.
What the hell.
“I’d love one,” I say, and he waves down the bartender again.
“Another for the lady,” he requests, and I offer a smile. At least, I hope it’s a smile and not a grimace. After the last two days, I can’t really tell anymore.
The bartender slides both of our drinks across the bar and we raise them together before sipping.
“Everett,” he says, swallowing a mouthful of something rich and amber. “People call me Ev.” He holds out a hand and I take it. It’s warm and calloused. He shakes mine in a firm grip with a gentle squeeze.
“Ruth,” I respond. “People call me… Ruth.” Why is my voice doing that weird thing? It’s high-pitched but husky, like a weird, intentional phone-sex voice. It’s not me, but I don’t know how to stop it. But he laughs then, andgod,that sound could melt the polar ice caps.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ruth.” He tips his glass towards me as he lifts it to his lips. “What brings a beautiful lady like you to an airport lounge like this, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“What brings anyone here?” I attempt a chuckle to go along with my terrible joke. “Waiting for a plane.”
He laughs, low and rumbly. His accent is doing all kinds of things to the butterflies flapping up a storm in my belly. I can’t place it beyond ‘southern’, but he has that slow cowboy drawl from the movies and deep, heavy-lidded eyes, and the way he’s looking me up and down… good god, it’s like he’s on death row and I’m his last meal.
What the fuck, Ruth? He’s a complete stranger. Surely you can’t be that desperate.
