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My eyes dart from person to person, seeking out any woman who looks to be around twenty-five (my mom refused to tell me more than her name and age, and said that the rest was to be “a surprise”). I stuff my hands in my pockets as I investigate each potential face. I lock eyes with one woman, a short brunette with striking green eyes. She smiles at me, and I feel my heart leap absurdly, like I’m a teenager on a blind date. Jenna? As she approaches, she heads toward me, but ends up walking past me, further into the airport.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Who could Jenna be?
She looks like a Jenna, I think, watching an elegant redhead exit the plane. She sees me watching her, looks me up and down, and smiles coyly. I return the smile, cocking an eyebrow. However, I suppress the grin as a man exits the plane and kisses her on the cheek, holding a yappy dog in a carrier. Maybe not.
More and more people get off the plane and walk past me. I clear my throat, trying to sort through my emotions. Nervousness is still present, yes, but so is some frustration, a dash of annoyance, and even a sprinkle of regret. Maybe this wasn’t a scheme I should have gone along with. My phone is a heavy weight in my pocket, and I entertain the thought of calling my mom, telling her that the deal is off, and driving home. Immediately, though, I disregard this idea. I owe my mom some trust, like she asked for. And I owe it to Jenna, even though I don’t know her, to pick her up from the airport.
Newly resolute, I place my hands in my jacket pockets and wait for Jenna to make herself known.
The last few stragglers get off the plane: four elderly women, two couples, a young kid, and a middle-aged man. My brow furrows. Could I have missed her? Maybe she walked by without realizing it. Maybe I should have made a damn cardboard sign, like my mom encouraged me to do…
As I’m about to track down the green-eyed brunette, wondering if she might have been Jenna, the last straggler exits the gate. Our gazes meet. She smiles, shyly. I suspect it’s the only shy thing about her.
She’s definitely no older than twenty-five. Blonde, yes, but that’s where the similarities to my past lovers end. A shocking streak of pink zigs through the front of her hair. She’s short and deliciously curvy, her ample chest hugged by a crop top that showcases her toned tummy. Her leopard-print leggings reveal her every curve. She may not be my usual type, but, God, she’s sexy, in a wild-child kind of way. She’s absolutely unlike anyone else I’ve seen in Snow Valley, and because of that, I am instantly intrigued.
“Jenna?” I call, and she raises a hand, waving at me with sparkly-pink nails.
“You must be Matt!” she says as she approaches.
I hold out my hand for her to shake it, and she places hers in it. I don’t believe in love at first sight, or anything at first sight, but I’ll be damned if I don’t feel a sizzle of electricity pass between us as her blue eyes meet mine and I feel the first touch of her soft skin. Her eyes widen, and she unconsciously bites her lower lip in a way I find irresistible.
Maybe this will be an interesting match, after all.
4
Jenna
Not to brag, but after years of touring, I am a professional traveler. I know all the tips and secrets to ensure a positive experience. Velvet eye mask for sleeping? Got it. Neck pillow? Of course. Leopard-print blanket? Absolutely. Chargers, magazines, and snacks galore? You bet your bottom dollar. Whether the journey lasts two hours or two weeks, I look like a seasoned veteran.
From LaGuardia to Snow Valley, Montana is about a five-and-a-half-hour flight, so I settle comfortably into my window seat. I’m armed with a bottle of water, a bag of chips, and a Cosmo magazine for when I get tired of napping. A female-fronted punk band blasts in my headphones. I know that some people hate planes, but I find them soothing. They’re always the same, with the same types of people, same pre-flight announcements, and the same rules and regulations. They make me feel calm.
So it’s weird that, about two hours in, I start to get antsy. It becomes harder and harder to focus on Cosmo, even the horoscope section, which is my favorite. (My horoscope says, “Be patient, Leo! Something new and exciting is headed your way.”) I flip through the glossy pages and try to just look at the photos, but even that becomes overwhelming. Frowning, I stash the magazine in the pocket on the back of the chair in front of me, and take a shaky sip of water. What is going on?
