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Welcometo Town
“Ladies and gentlemen,on behalf of us here at Royal Thai Airlines, we’d like to welcome you to Bangkok. Local time is approximately ten twenty-seven in the morning, and the weather is currently thirty-two degrees Celsius, or about 90 Fahrenheit. For those of you with connecting flights…”
The flight attendant repeated her announcement in Thai as the plane taxied up to our gate. From my first-class seat I could see everything, right down to the guy fiddling with the jetway controls to get everything lined up.
Mine was an expensive seat… too expensive, really. Even with cashing in all my credit card miles and using all the tricks of the trade to knock down the cost, the round-trip ticket was easily as much as my monthly paycheck. But after what I’d been through that year, I wasn’t going to whine or complain about any amount of money. Not after what my now-former fiancé had done, or why he’d done it.
No, life had kicked me right between the legs, and while I might not have a set of balls, it hurt like hell. But it hadn’t knocked me out, so there was that.
As I hustled through the airport, I knew I was getting lots of looks. First, I was taller than most everyone and second, my long blonde hair, in serious need of a wash after an eighteen-hour flight, whipped around me as the braid I’d had it in had unraveled beyond repair.
Bottom line, I was a mess, and all I wanted to do was wash my face and brush my teeth. I’d never been on a plane for any longer than two hours and after the long-haul flight to Thailand, I could confidently say that after I returned home from this trip, I’d never be making it again. I knew I was freaking lucky to be in first-class class but that didn’t make being stuck on a plane for so long much less hideous.
“Is there a problem?” I asked the customs and immigration inspector as he looked at my passport and then me.
He shook his head. “No problem,” he said in perfect English.
I gave him a smile as he slid my passport back to me through the narrow slot in the plexiglass. With a nod, I picked it up and tucked it in my pocket, pausing to try to pull my wild hair into some sort of ponytail.
I heaved my oversized suitcase off the conveyor, another reminder that the ex wasn’t with me. When we’d traveled before, not that we’d done much, he handled the heavy luggage. I was on my own now.
Fine. Fuck him.
So what if my fiancé of two years left me because it was doubtful I could ever have a child? There were other options to becoming a parent, I’d argued. But he didn’t want to explore them and decided instead to walk out.
A surprise case of endometriosis, followed by surgery, can change your life trajectory overnight.
It had mine.
But I wasn’t going to throw myself a goddamn pity party.
I’d meet another man, one who didn’t evaluate me based on my fertility. I had a lot going for me. There’d be plenty of other guys.
At least that’s what my mother had told me.
But it was a mantra I told myself every morning. I’d look in the mirror, telling myself this, even if I didn’t fully feel that way. After all, I was still nursing a broken heart. But I was determined to fake it until I made it. Which was why I ended up halfway around the world, taking care of one item on my bucket list.
I rolled through the last bit of the arrival terminal, ignoring the calls from taxi drivers vying for my business. Thanks to my tendency for planning, I knew where to go, and whom to look for.
And there he was.
Yes.
I spotted a sign, with both the logo for the five-star resort I had booked, and my name. The guy holding the sign was devastatingly handsome, with golden brown skin and black hair stylishly combed. When I headed right for him, he flashed me a smile with the deepest dimples I think I’d ever seen.
And that was just his face. His arms were corded with lean muscle, and his shirt was taut across his chest. He definitely worked out. You don’t get a body like that ferrying around tourists all day.
And as icky as I felt after my long flight, a little thrill ran through me when I caught him looking me up and down with, if I wasn’t completely crazy, a bit of approval. He was a nice welcome present to Bangkok.
After a quick bow of the head with his hands in the prayer position, he reached for my bag. The big heavy one. “Miss Murray?” he asked.
“Tana Murray,” I confirmed, offering a hand.
His smile changed, becoming warmer instead of strictly professional, and when he shook my hand, a spark jumped between us.
“My name is Chay,” he said in perfect English. “Well, my real name is much longer, so I don’t use it with resort guests. Too hard for non-Thais to say.”
