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There are about a dozen people in line in front of us. Peeking forward, I spy a tub of ice holding soda cans; there’s a telltale green bottle neck. Ah, yes. A Pellegrino will be perfect. Ginger says something about the food service that I barely register. My eyes lock on to that bottle, and I can practically feel the bubbles slipping down my throat to settle the jitters and the carsickness inside me. Just a few more steps. What I wouldn’t give for long arms. I nudge the man in front of me out of the way and reach for the bottle, slipping two fingers around the neck. Ah, Pellegrino. I love this place.
Another hand slips below mine and wraps around the same bottle. Long fingers, a strong grip. Tightening my own grasp on the wet glass, I raise my eyes, and my mind goes blank. It’s him. The guy from the airport. From the suitcase incident. Wow. The winding ride in the shuttle hasn’t done anything to erase his handsome confidence. This man’s picture should be in the Chamberlain catalog. Those deep brown eyes, meeting mine. A slow-moving smile builds across his face as those eyes dart down to our hands and back to my face.
“It’s you,” he says, his smile looking a little forced. Or maybe nervous?
I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond to that, so I pretend not to recognize him. “Have we met?”
His smile slips. If the look that crosses his face was on anyone else, I’d say it was hurt. But there is no way I can hurt this guy. I made a total fool of myself in front of him. He has all the power here.
Still gripping the bottle that I am also holding, he says, “Airport?”
I have committed to the act, so I keep playing. “I did come through the airport this morning.”
“And you tried to steal my suitcase,” he says, a smile re-forming on that face. The face made increasingly attractive as the smile grows more sincere.
This is a face that knows it photographs well, and my fingers suddenly itch for my camera. To capture that confidence, that look of pleasure on his handsome face.
Pleasure? At the memory of my silliness earlier? Okay. I can admit it now. I was silly. And I’m okay with it. “Oh, right. I didn’t recognize you.” It’s the only thing I can think of.
As if I have said something cruel, his face falls. A blank mask spreads over his features. He isn’t less handsome for it, but he is far less engaging. He isn’t just shuttered; he’s put up a sign that says Keep Out.
He says nothing but takes the Pellegrino out of my hands. He’s going to dry the bottle and hand it to me. What a gentleman.
Surely that’s his plan. My hand is stretched out toward him—I mean, toward the drink.
But no. He tugs it close to his chest in a protective gesture.
“I can’t let you try to steal something else from me. You might think it’s allowed, and where would it stop?”
I almost have time to laugh at the joke, but the punchline isn’t coming. He pulls the bottle to his face, runs the side of it across his forehead, turns the cap, swallows down two, three, four gulps, all while maintaining solid eye contact.
I have not even blinked, and I know my mouth is hanging open. Did that just happen? And what was it, exactly?
Are there some kind of flirting rules at Chamberlain that I don’t know about? Does he think I’m entertained? Amused?
Far too late, a sound of mild protest escapes my lips. He doesn’t hear it. He’s already gone, on the wrong side of the table—where food service workers dish up salad and sides—avoiding the line, helping himself to two burgers and lifting an entire bag of chips. He grins at the food service workers, and they grin back, charmed.
He says something to one of the people serving salad, and she responds, and he laughs.
The laugh. That melodic, flowing, gorgeous laugh. It’s him, which is just not fair.
Seriously?
I hate this place.
I’m still standing there with my mouth open, and Ginger mutters something colorful that definitely contains the word “tool.”
She turns to me. “You met him at the airport?”
I shrug. “Kind of. He seems—” I can’t figure out the appropriate word to end my sentence with.
She doesn’t offer anything.
I close my mouth and point to the space where he stood a few seconds ago. After a breath, I ask, “Do we hate him?”
Ginger nods, a solemn look on her face. “Oh, I think we really do.”
At least I’m not alone in this.
