The second she spots me, a huge smile breaks across her face. My stomach drops like I’ve just gone over the edge of a rollercoaster.
Okay, now what the hell is that?
Nerves. Just nerves. Relief that she’s here and not shaken by that jerk. But I know in my gut that’s not the only reason.
Finley’s breathtakingly, intoxicatingly, agonizingly beautiful.
I don’t have the first clue what to do with that. She’s made it very clear this is platonic. But there’s no time to figure it out, because she’s already walking toward me.
Get yourself under control, Alex. Act normal.
“How was your flight?” I ask like I’m a chauffeur making polite conversation rather than a guy greeting his fake girlfriend. I mentally pat myself on the back for keeping it professional. And platonic.
“Good,” she says, some of the shine fades from her eyes, and I know immediately that my stiff tone is to blame. The last thing I want to do is steal her joy. I need to shove these feelings down. It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve got six years of practice, shoving feelings into the cellar of my heart.
Only now the hinges are starting to bulge.
This whole thing is a huge mistake.
Maybe I’ve built up this attraction. I’ve been rereading our text exchange from the night we hashed out the details. Finley’s more charming—and funnier—than I realized. That, combined with how beautiful she is, mixed in with my shaky nerves over being home… I’ve probably just latched onto the thought of her being my girlfriend. I need to remember this isn’t real.
But seeing the look on her face now, I want to rewind the past minute and try again.
Too late for that now, asshole.
She glances around the lobby. “Do you know where I get my luggage?”
Disappointment hits me like a baseball to the chest. Maybe she hadn’t been scanning the room for me. She’d been looking for a luggage carousel.
“Yeah,” I glance toward the door to the tarmac. “Give me a second, and I’ll get it for you.”
“You don’t have to—” But I’m out the door before she can finish. Partially because I don’t want to argue, but mostly because I need a second to get my head on straight.
I hurry over to the plane where two men are unloading bags. I recognize one of them from when I was waiting, and he gives me a smirk. “You must really be in a hurry to get your girlfriend home.”
His innuendo gets under my skin, but I shove it aside. “Yeah. Something like that.”
As they snicker and get back to tossing bags, I realize I have no idea what her suitcase looks like.
I’m an idiot.
I pull my phone out of my coat pocket and see that she’s already sent a text.
Green suitcase with a pink ribbon
I scan the pile and freeze. There’s no way…
An avocado-green, hard-shell suitcase stands off to the side, perched on metal feet instead of wheels, like it’s been dropped out of a black-and-white film. A pink ribbon dangles from the handle, as though she’d confuse it in a sea of black roller bags. I check the luggage tag anyway and confirm it’s hers. Samsonite is stamped on the metal under the handle.
Where did she even get this thing? From one of her elderly neighbors? Her mother?
At first glance, it seems impractical, but from what I know of Finley, she isn’t. The contradiction gives me pause, because the case feels like something she would carry.
Why do I feel like there’s a story here? Just like there’s a story about her attorney’s retainer.
And more importantly, why do I want to know it?
Once I’m inside, she hurries toward me, reaching for her suitcase. “I can take it from here.”
