Page 7 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

“And they’ll feed you like non-stop,” she’s saying. “It’ll be a constant cycle of food and trying to match us up.”

“Sounds awesome,” I say, holding her gaze until I see her blush slightly.

“Well, it’s probably not so bad from the outside for like a few days. It was a lot to grow up around.”

The baggage claim is as hectic as the terminal, and I offer to grab her luggage as she texts her family, her eyes bulging at whatever is being said on her phone. “They’re posting about my homecoming on social media,” she says with all the severity of a cancer diagnosis. I can’t help but laugh. I look at my phone and see messages from my best friend, who also works at SonLaw Gaming, my company, asking for an update.

John

OK, so obviously they canceled the conference in Puerto Rico.

Too bad they didn’t tell us a few hours earlier, we could’ve saved you the trip.

Sonny

Sounds like your stomach knew better.

John

Hey, I said I was sorry for bailing!

I’ll work on finding you a flight home.

Sonny

I have a place in Miami where I can wait out the storm, if need be, so don’t stress.

John

Are you sure?

You know this place barely runs without you.

Sonny

I could use the break anyway. It’ll do them some good to figure things out.

John

I can probably send a private plane to bring you back to AZ as a last resort…

I glance at Cai again, her brow furrowed and her mouth moving slightly as she types, the humid air already making her curls frizz into an adorable halo around her face. What is it about this girl that makes me smile? She is a ball of electricity. A compact ball of nerves in a curvy, soft package that tugs at something deep in my chest. And those big eyes seem to be searching and taking everything in.

Sonny

Yea, I’m sure. I’m fine staying here.

Cai tells me to look out for a lime-green suitcase but still points it out as if anyone could miss the behemoth of luggage. I grab it from the carousel and set it up for her.

“Well, I’m ready if you are,” I say to Cai.

She looks around and then asks, “Don’t you have any luggage?”

I shake my head and point to my backpack. “I have everything in here.”

She looks at her own suitcase as if it has personally betrayed her. This is the kind of luggage you’d pack if you’re planning a six-month expedition to a deserted island, not a weekend in Puerto Rico.

“I wasn’t sure what I would need,” she says quickly, cheeks flushing. “I’m a chronic overpacker. It’s a whole thing.”