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No messages.
I dialed her.
Still no answer.
I was ready to work myself into a real lather over it, but the sound of air brakes releasing outside drew my attention.
Air brakes? Like on a semi?
From the glimpse through the big bay window, I saw it was definitely not a semi. Instead, parked along the road was a box truck. A big one.
I frowned.
Until the passenger door opened and a certain brunette in oversized sunglasses and denim short shorts hopped down and started talking with her hands to whomever was in the driver's seat.
My Gia. With a freaking box truck.
I opened the front door and took a step outside but didn’t make it any further than that because behind the first truck, was a second. And behind the second truck, was a glorified golf cart we sometimes used as island taxis.
What the hell.
“Okay, so you’re probably wondering what’s going on.” My beautiful sight-for-sore-eyes sashayed up to the front door as two men exited the respective box trucks, gave Gia a friendly wave and hopped into the taxi to drive away.
Leaving the abandoned trucks in front of the house.
Wait.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Gia shifted uncomfortably in front of me, her thick dark hair pulled into a low ponytail that fell over one shoulder. She was sweating in the heat and little wisps of hair stuck to her skin.
She looked delicious. But…
“What’s in those trucks, Gia?” Finally, words.
I moved behind her and she turned to face me, having nowhere to go but into the house unless she wanted to be smushed against the door jamb.
She looked nervous, and for a moment, I worried that something went wrong in those three weeks we were apart.
Except she was here now. Right where she was supposed to be.
“What’s in the trucks, and where did those guys go?”
“I didn’t put my stuff in storage,” she explained. “Instead, I brought it with me. All of it. I hope that’s okay.”
Of course it was okay. But...
“How did you get it here?” I kept walking toward her. Eventually, I’d catch her, but not before she backed into the living area. She stopped when she hit the kitchen island and leaned against it.
“Okay Sloane, I’ll tell you everything, but stop looking at me like you want to eat me.”
“I do want to eat you.” I hadn’t seen her for three weeks. I wanted to do everything to her.
She pressed her lips together, but I didn’t miss the way they tweaked with humor at the corners.
“I get you’re mad but let me tell you what happened.” She took off her sunglasses and slipped them onto the neckline of her hot pink tank top, the earpiece disappearing into her cleavage.
God, I missed that cleavage.
