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“Wait…” I reach down for my suitcase, forgetting for a moment I lost it. “What’s going on?”
“We can discuss it more tomorrow,” Steve says easily. “It’s getting late, so I’ll let you go. Bye now.”
“Uh…w—”
If I had more to say, it wouldn’t matter, because the call goes dead, and my carousel number is announced over the airport speakers.
Everyone from Flight 353 is to move their asses and collect their shit, because they have new flights coming in every few minutes and they need that space for the newcomers.
Frustrated at my suitcase theft, Steve’s cryptic call, andArch’sannoyingly alluring aftershave, I turn left—the way Arch and his sprinting companion went—and make my way toward the carousel before I risk losing everything else I brought with me.
I don’t own a lot, I don’t need a lot, but my impoverished roots remind me I don’t want to go shopping for a new toothbrush and underwear when the stores open tomorrow. I want to get to my apartment tonight and shower in my new bathroom. I want to pull on a fresh pair of panties and fall onto my unmade bed—unmade, because although my apartment is furnished with the basics, I still have to provide linens, and I know myself well enough to know I’m not dragging sheets out tonight and making the damn bed.
But bare or no, it’s still an inviting image, so I get on my way.
Striding along the wide concourse of the airport, past windows constantly battered by nasty sleet, and families bickering over random family stuff, I stop in front of my carousel, only to dive forward when my bag, labeled‘HEAVY’with ugly, orange tape, whirs by.
It’s notthatheavy. But airline employees don’t like to lift bags that have books inside, and though I don’t consider myself overly sentimental, I still can’t get rid of my old college texts.
What Lies Beneath.
Forensics 101.
Digging Up The Past.
At least a hundred dollars each when I bought them, and pored over in quiet libraries or my dingy apartment for countless hours over the years. I long ago stopped needing them, but they’re the only possessions from my past I couldn’t discard quite as easily as I’ll get over my stolen suitcase.
Grabbing the strap of my‘HEAVY’bag and pulling with a grunt, I make a spectacle of myself as I tug at the hundred or so pounds being held together by the ugly, orange tape more than the actual material of my case. I drag it to the edge of the moving conveyor belt, then plant my feet and pull some more to get the bulk over the steel lip of the carousel.
Before I can pull it to the floor, the conveyor takes the lead in our ridiculous game of tug-of-war, dragging me one foot to the right. Then two. Three.
“Shit.” Sweat breaks out on my brow. The muscles in my arms bulge.
But then that smell is back. Sexy cologne, accompanied by a sexy, muscular arm. Unlike everyone else in here, that arm is bare, and the chest it’s attached to is covered only with a gray t-shirt tight enough to scramble an educated woman’s brains.
The man who is possibly named Arch tugs my bag with barely any effort, brings it over the edge of the conveyor, then lets it drop with a thud as I turn to him in surprise, breathless when his green eyes stop on mine.
The moment they do, his thick bottom lip quirks into a grin that makes my heart squeeze, and I stare. I make a dick of myself as my libido suggests nasty, nasty things it has no right to suggest.
Arch’s jaw is covered in a day’s growth, and his cheeks wrap around muscles that twitch as he studies me.
Masseter, my ‘educated’ brain insists.That twitching muscle is called a masseter.
“Uh…”
“Not very aware of your surroundings, are you?” His eyes flicker down my face when I smile. I could wonder if he’s looking at my lips. Maybe he has a thing for chins or a protruding clavicle. But experience tells me something different. Experience says he’s looking at the deep dimples carved into my cheeks.
Considered an attractive trait by some. But in their most basic sense, dimples are a birth defect formed in the womb.
“New to the area?”
“Arch! Fuck.” That same guy from earlier stops by his friend and tosses me an impatient look. Not necessarily an unkind gesture, but exasperated for sure. “We have places to be.”
“Just doing my civic duty.” Arch’s half-smile drops away as he steps back and releases my bag.
His friend grabs the sleeve of Arch’s shirt to pull him along, to steer him, because although the sexy stranger walks, his eyes scour my body. My tight blue jeans, and my oversized, slouchy sweater. My hands, exposed beneath the copious fabric of my top, and my collarbone, soon to be exposed to the weather outside.
“Look up sometime, lady.” He flattens his lips so I feel his disapproval in my stomach. “I don’t wanna have to keep doing this.”
