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Well, well. Guess even the pilots are going to be stuck in Vermont for longer than they wanted.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything? A car that’s been checked in but not processed yet?” The man’s voice is warm and enticing and again, it pings something in my brain. “See, my sister’s boyfriend’s proposing to her on Christmas morning at my parents’ house in Chicago, and I promised him I’d be there for moral support.”
That suit-clad elbow comes to rest on the counter inches from mine, and I’m so annoyed I’m tempted to shove it off. Also, why does his exasperated voice sound familiar?
“That’s the sweetest thing!” Rochelle’s face brightens like the Christmas tree that the captain’s family will presumably be gathered around in holiday bliss once he’s back in their warm embrace. She glances around at the chaos of the airport. People are mobbing the competing car rental counters on either side of us, and the crowd behind me and the captain is getting ever bigger. She bites her lip and pokes at the keyboard in front of her, then drops her voice. “It looks like we do have one vehicle that was returned but hasn’t been cleaned and processed yet. I could—”
“I’ll take it,” the man announces. And that’s when I get mad.
“Wait a minute!” I blurt. “I was here first.”
I sound childish and whiny, but dammit, Iwashere before this man with his golden wings came strolling in. I finally turn to face him, prepared to tell him to step the eff back, but when I do, the pretty eyes looking back at me shut me right up.
“You,” I manage to croak out.
“Shit. Hi.” Those dark eyes widen in surprise, and now I know why his groans sound so familiar. He pressed them into my skin only a few hours ago when we were both naked.
Embarrassment crawls up my throat, and I blurt, “How did you—” at the same time he says, “What are you—”
“Does one of you want the car?” Rochelle asks, her eyes narrowing at the crowd starting to grumble loudly behind us.
“Yes,” we shout at the same time.
“I’ll take it.” He jerks a thumb at me. “She lives around here.”
“What makes you think that?” I demand, my discomfort momentarily forgotten.
He gestures out the big airport window. “I dunno, the fact that you work at a bar eight minutes from here?”
Grief swamps me, and I whisper, “You don’t know anything about me,” sucking in a shaky breath as he eyes me uneasily, no doubt wondering if I’m going to burst into tears again. I’m almost tempted to do it if it means I might get a rental car out of it, but I’m better than that. Probably.
Rochelle’s eyes now move from him to me, and her lips tighten. “You’ve got thirty seconds to figure out who’s signing for it.”
We glare at each other until she sighs. “One car. It’s what I’ve got. I’m sure any of the people behind you would be glad to take it off your hands.”
Mutters of agreement rumble down the line, I don’t have to look around to know the angry mob ready to pull out their torches and pitchforks.
With one last, furious look at the would-be car thief, I say firmly, “I was here first.” I angrily zip open my purse and rummage through it for my wallet.
Kleenex. Lip gloss. Mints. Extra pair of socks. Sunglasses, which are going to be super handy in a blizzard.
No wallet.
“Oh hell,” I breathe, pawing through the bag in desperation. “Dammit!”
I upend the whole bag onto the floor of the airport, not even flinching when an avalanche of loose pennies plink on the floor next to a stray tampon. “Come on!” I wail, close to crying for real this time.
“Ma’am,” Rochelle says disapprovingly, “if you don’t have the proper documentation, I’m afraid I can’t rent you a car.”
“No, it’s…” I gesture helplessly at the contents of my purse, then the overstuffed weekender bag and lumpy canvas tote on the ground next to my feet. Shit, did I stash my wallet in one of them after leaving the title company this morning? Or maybe in my suitcase? “It’s in here somewhere, I swear.”
The crowd behind me undulates like a large, dangerous animal, and I hear someone growl, “Come the fuckon, lady,” and someone else shouts, “I’ve gotmyID right here.”
Blinking back tears, I start to paw through my weekend when goddamnCaptainSebastian St. Claire kneels to scoop my belongings off the airport floor.
Sebastian St. Claire. What a ridiculously perfect name for the man with the gorgeous eyes and the shiny hair and the talented fingers.
“Where are you trying to get to?” he asks quietly, and I pointedly do not think about the fact that he’s shoving a tampon back into my purse.
