Page 3 of Feel It in the Air

Weaving my way over there, I throw up a little prayer—okay, a great big one—that no one beats me to it. God must still be listening, because he parts the crowds the same way Moses parted the Red Sea, and I cross the crowded room in record time, steeling myself before asking a very simple question.

“That seat taken?”

And I’m ignored.

I blink, trying to figure out where I went wrong. But then I look at her again, and notice something I didn’t before. Her headphones. Okay, let’s try this again.

I lightly tap her shoulder and she jumps, flailing her arms outward. I jump back, trying to avoid being accosted.

“Sorry, just wondering if that seat is taken,” I say again.

Removing one of her headphones, she flashes me a polite smile, making her green eyes shine, reminding me of traffic lights in the night sky.

Wow, I really need to find better things to compare her beauty to. Traffic lights and trees are not the way to woo her…

“That depends.”

“On?”

She narrows her eyes at me, scanning up and down my body, assessing me. I rock backward, allowing her the opportunity, almost enjoying the feel of her gaze on me. It also gives me the chance to return the gesture, and even though she’s sitting, I know I like what I see.

“Do you plan on selling me something, askin’ about my relationship with the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, or mansplainin’ anything to me in any way?”

Her face is dead serious as they come, her sweet Southern accent filling my veins with excitement. The specifics of her drawl are hard to place thanks to all the background noise—Louisiana if I had to guess—but there’s no doubt that she’s turned it up to make sure I know it’s there. So I do the same.

“No, ma’am,” I say, keeping the Georgia nice and thick. “I have nothing to sell, I will just trust that your relationship with the Lord is what you want it to be, and I know better than to mansplain. I have a younger sister.”

Her façade cracks, a giggle bubbling to the surface, making all of her light up. The smile that spreads across her face puts that polite one from a moment ago to shame, and for a second, my heart skitters. It’s as if my answer flipped a switch inside her, opening the door to the secret back room where the party is held.

Holy shit…

“Then no, this seat is not taken,” she replies, shifting to remove her bag from it.

Yes!

I slide around her, dropping my bag at our feet and hopping up onto the stool. She turns to me and smiles, and I search for something—anything—to say. I need this to be good. Smooth. I only get one chance at this.

But then she beats me to it.

“I take it being stuck at JFK was not on your bingo card today either?”

“It was not.”

She nods in understanding. Because if there is anything that is going to bring us together right now, it’s this shared experience. Which means I need to keep the conversation going. Need to ask her a question. Something about herself. Get her talking. That way I can find out more about her.

“Where you headed to?” she asks, taking up the conversational burden I’ve failed to.

“I’d go anywhere with you.”

The answer tumbles out of me faster than I can stop it. I have to admit, it’s a smooth line. One that in any other situation I’d be damn proud of myself for coming up with. Right about now, however…

She scoffs, eyes widening and mouth agape, clearly taken aback. Only, she’s still smiling. So, maybe she’s not that put off.

“I should have included hitting on me in my list,” she laughs. “And awfully bold considering you don’t even know my name yet.”

“Sorry, that was incredibly forward.” I hold out my hand, hoping that she takes it as a sign of goodwill. “I’m Gus.”

“Hi Gus. I’m Mar-o.”

A clap of thunder cuts her off, and I only catch the first part of her name, plus an o at the end. My brain scrambles, trying to put something together. Marlo, I think. At least, that’s the only woman’s name that I can come up with that starts with Mar and ends with o. I don’t want to ask again and make it sound like I wasn’t listening—we're already having to half shout to be heard as it is.

So I do what any red-blooded American man would do. I opt to simply not use her name.

“Nice to meet you. Can I buy you a drink?”