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Mom, seriously, you were a saint.
With my duffel over my shoulder and my small carry-on rolling behind me, I walk out of the baggage claim area and toward the taxi line.
Normally, I’d rent a car, but since I had to book this flight so last minute and there’s apparently some kind of end-of-summer festival going on in downtown Tampa, there were no rentals available.
Hopefully, though, I’ll be able to arrange something tomorrow. Or else, I’ll have to cruise around in my dad’s Porsche while I’m here.
Not such a terrible fate for me, personally, but as far as taking him places with an injury to his damn groin muscle, I’m thinking his late-life-crisis Porsche won’t be ideal.
Once I make my way through the automatic doors, I spot the taxi line and count only three people in front of me. Not too bad.
While I stand in line, I pull my phone back out of my pocket and start scrolling through work emails. In just the short flight from New York to Tampa—two and a half hours, tops—my inbox has managed to accumulate over forty emails. Since the small regional plane didn’t offer Wi-Fi, I had to settle for working on my end-of-quarter reports.
On a sigh, I run my hand through my dark-brown hair and begin the task of sifting through what’s priority and what’s not.
Five emails done and the taxi line gets smaller by one person.
Another ten emails and the line gets shorter again.
By the time I reach the front, I slide my phone into my pocket and wait patiently as I spot a black taxi heading my way. The driver pulls the cab to a stop right in front of me, but just as I lift my duffel up and over my shoulder to carry it to the trunk, a rush of bright red careens past me.
“Oh, thank you so much!” a female voice calls toward the male driver who has just gotten out of the driver’s side to assist with bags.
But he shouldn’t be helping with her bags.
He should be helping with my bags.
What the fuck?
“Uh, excuse me?” I question loud enough to catch her attention.
She looks up from her spot at the trunk. Her long, wavy red hair fans down her shoulders, and a few rogue curls hang over her face. Bright-blue eyes meet mine, and I can’t stop my brain from thinking, Well, goddamn.
Smooth skin, striking features, and a few freckles dotting her nose, she’s…stunning. The kind of woman that urges a double and triple take. Between her gorgeous face and the way her long legs look beneath her cutoff jean shorts, this woman is like the girl next door, but with secrets.
Dirty fucking secrets.
“Were you talking to me?” she questions, tilting her head to the side when I don’t answer right away.
Shit. Get it together.
Those blue eyes of hers are still locked with mine, searching them in confusion.
“Uh…yeah…actually,” I say, clearing my throat. I glance between the taxi and the taxi line. “You’re kind of stealing my taxi.”
“I am?”
I smirk. “Yeah.”
“Did you call him yourself?”
My head jerks back in surprise. “Well, no, but—”
“So, you don’t know this driver?” she questions, looking between the driver and me. “Do you know him—” she pauses briefly, then asks “—what’s your name, sir?”
“Bob.”
She smiles at him. “Bob, do you know this man?”
“No.” The driver shakes his head.
“I didn’t call him,” I explain on a sigh. “But I followed the rules and waited in this taxi line like everyone else.”
“You follow the rules a lot?” she asks, and I don’t know what to make of her question.
It sounds dirty and sexy yet sarcastic and accusatory at the same time.
“Don’t most people?”
“I don’t.” She winks. “But you keep doing you, Barney Fife. The town of Mayberry needs you.”
Okay, she definitely just passive-aggressively called me a square.
“So, you’re just going to steal my taxi, then?” I question and glance over my shoulder to note the other people waiting in line like myself, but I quickly realize I’m the only one standing here. It doesn’t matter, though. My point is still valid.
“Well, I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“Are you going to fight me for it?”
Excuse me?
“Am I going to fight you for the taxi?”
She nods.
“Um, no,” I answer on a laugh. What a weird fucking question. “I don’t make a huge habit of fighting women.”
“Okay then, I guess the answer to your question is yes, then.” She nods. Winks. Taps her hand on the top of the taxi. “Let’s hit it, Bob.”
Bob looks between me and the redhead, who is now getting into of the back seat of his taxi. But eventually, he just shrugs and hops back into the driver’s seat.
Then they’re off. Just like that.
And I don’t miss the way the mysterious, taxi-stealing redhead turns around in her seat to wave to me as they go or the fact that I’m feeling a lot less attuned to how pretty she is.
