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Tate carries me from the front of the plane, out the door, and down the long hall to the inside of the airport. People are looking at us, and I feel completely mortified and excited at the same time.
“Wait here,” Tate says, placing me in a chair. When he returns, carrying both bags, he looks triumphant.
“You’re blushing,” he says, noting how mortified I look in my seat.
“I wonder why.”
“Come on, let’s go. If you keep sitting there, blushing to perfection, I may have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you all the way to the car.”
I get up; shaking my head in disbelief that this is my life right now. Yes, Tate Williams has a playful side, one that I could get used to seeing. We make our way to the exit of the airport.
“Here we go,” Tate says, noting a man in all black who holds a sign that reads T.H.W.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It’s my name.”
“Why don’t they spell it out?”
“Because if someone reads the Williams name, it could be dangerous,” he says darkly.
A wave of cold fear rolls down my spine.
“Really?” I ask.
“Nah, I’m just joking with you,” he lets out a laugh.
I playfully slap his arm. “Stop doing that. I’m gullible.”
He smiles. “You’re beautiful.”
That familiar heat rushes through my body again.
The driver escorts us to what ends up being an impressive limousine just outside the airport. To think, I drove to the airport in a beat-up truck, and now I’m leaving the airport in a luxury limo. I’ll have to remember this experience for the rest of my life as I pretend to be Cinderella.
The limo driver opens the door for us, and I get in first. As I lower my head to get inside, I feel Tate’s warm hand upon my lower back, guiding me in. I can’t get enough of his electric touch. Once inside, Tate heaves a sigh.
“This is happening,” he says.
“I guess so. No turning back now.”
“There’s a problem,” Tate says, becoming tense.
“What?” I ask, thinking that maybe he was remembering something he forgot at home.
“You’re sitting too far away from me.”
I smile and blush again. He has such a powerful effect on me. I move toward him, sitting by his side.
“That’s more like it.” Tate wraps his massive arm around my shoulders, and I sink into him.
“More champagne?” he asks humorously. I hit him gently on the chest in protest. “Ow, you’re hurting me,” he says.
“That I find hard to believe,” I say as he pours me a glass of champagne.
“No, really. I’m in terrible pain,” he tells me, pretending to be hurt.
I hit him again just for good measure.
