Page 2 of Feel It in the Air

Hux mutters something under his breath about how there isn’t anything “sorry” about the paper division, and for a second I think about asking him to repeat it, but then I think better of it. I’m not looking to start a fight. Poke at him, sure, but not actually fight. Especially when I know he’s right. The paper and logging business is solid. Everything about Hayes is. We’re a well-oiled machine. Sighing, I start to move again, scanning around to look for the brewery. My hunger is starting to fully register.

“So when are you getting home? Willa’s pretty pissed you ditched the new marketing chick.”

“I didn’t ditch Bronwyn,” I defend. “My flight was canceled. And at the rate I’m going, it’ll be three a.m. before I’m back there.”

Hux laughs. “Sucks to be you, dude. She got Noel Keller to pick Bronwyn up, but you’re in a world of hurt when you see Willa next.”

“I don’t control the weather.”

“Tell that to our sister.”

Good point. She might be a former Miss Georgia, but our baby sister is still the youngest of seven, and a spitfire if there ever was one. With six older brothers, you don’t grow up unable to defend yourself—physically or verbally.

“I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

How, I don’t know. One more thing to figure out while I sit here. Dodging another family—this one complete with Mickey ears—I spot the brewery up ahead, thankful that I didn’t make up its existence. Not that any of the other overpriced establishments that I’ve passed along the way wouldn’t have worked, but my mind has been set on beer that hopefully wasn’t mass-produced.

“Oh hey,” I say, the small eatery next to the brewery catching my attention. “There’s a Dollie’s here too. Although they spell it wrong.”

“How do you spell Dolly wrong?” Hux asks.

“They spell it with an ie.”

“Bet it’s not as good as ours.”

I nod, silently agreeing. It’s hard to beat the greasy spoon back home. Not only because it’s owned by Hux’s best friend since childhood, Dolly McLain, who took it over from her grandmother, but because it’s true Southern cooking. There’s just something about food off a griddle that has probably never been cleaned in your lifetime. Or ever.

Let’s not lie here—that griddle has never been cleaned.

“Alright, I’m hanging up on you. I found a brewery and I need a drink.”

“Sounds good. See ya whenever you make it back.”

I groan, hitting the end button without another word, the unnecessary reminder like a knife to the heart. Leave it to Hux. And he’s not even the instigator of the family. That’s Anton, the brother above him.

The restaurant is crowded—borderline overflowing—and the hostess has a snarl on her face that could turn milk. Part of me feels for the girl. I’m sure this is a miserable job on the best of days, much less on a day like today. Another part—the part that is currently dealing with her curt response of “if you find a spot just take it”—wants to tell her exactly where she can put that look of hers.

Yeah, I really need that drink.

I scan the tables, finding nothing. Pretty par for the course today. Really, I should have known better than to think a bar wasn’t going to be full with all of us grounded for hours. This is what I get for sitting at the gate like a hopeful newbie. I know better than that. At this point, my best option is probably to hop in the fast food line, grab a burger, and hope that older lady really did save my seat.

Tucking my tail between my legs, I give the place one last scan, ready to head out, when I see it. No, not it.

Her.

The air crackles around me, a hush falling over the roar that had been surrounding me. Sitting at the very far corner of the bar, dressed in dark jeans and a black blazer, her head bent over a book, is the most beautiful woman. Not to be dramatic about it, but there’s no taking my eyes off her.

I swallow hard, watching as she tucks a strand of the most beautiful dark red hair—the color of leaves on a perfect autumn afternoon—behind her ear, and I hope no one will ever know that I’m comparing her hair to trees. Or that every part of my forty-year-old self feels like I’ve been reduced to a preteen who just saw his first naked girl. Or that I have no idea what to call this weird combination of knees that feel like jelly and feet like cinderblocks that is preventing me from moving. All I know is that my pulse doesn’t know if it should speed up or slow down, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Holy shit…

And then, it gets better.

Shifting in her seat, she turns the page in her book, allowing me a glimpse. There is an open spot next to her.

As if the heavens opened up and the Lord himself called my name, I know what I need to do. If only I can make my legs work.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all it takes, right?