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“My gate’s there,” I point in the other direction. But we both pause there a moment. Our eyes meet, and I feel my pulse kick.
I should do it; seize the day, or his muscular shoulders, and say something. Ask for his number, or even just his name?—
“Scooter! Get back here!”
A shout goes up, and I turn, just as a massive German Shepard hurtles past – sending me stumbling.
“Whoa—” the man catches my arm, steadying me before I go ass-up on the ground. But my busted old carry-on case isn’t so lucky. It goes flying, exploding on the ground and sending my clothes, makeup, and travel-sized toiletries spilling all around us.
Shit.
“I’m so sorry!” The dog’s owner, a feeble-looking woman, rushes up, apologizing.
“It’s fine!”
But just as I’m bent double, frantically scrabbling to grab sunscreen, sandals, and my precious $100 face cream from being trampled underfoot, the damn dog decides to make himself useful and play fetch.
With my underwear.
And deposit it right at Mr. Maybe-Not-So-All-Wrong’s feet.
Oh God.
The man leans over and plucks my panties from the ground. “These yours?” he asks, smiling, and I go right ahead and die a hundred deaths.
Because of course those aren’t the sexy, silky new lingerie I decided to splurge on for the trip, all delicate violet lace and tiny ribbons, just begging to be seductively untied. Oh no. The most attractive man I’ve had the pleasure of flirting with for years is standing there in front of me, holding out a saggy oversized pair of cotton grandma briefs.
White ones. Printed with tiny Minnie Mouse faces.
Lottie calls them my period panties. I call them perfect for a night on the couch.
Nobody, by any stretch of the imagination, would ever call them fit to be seen by another human being, let alone a gorgeous, charming specimen of a man with a jawline so sharp I could use it to slice my morning grapefruit.
“Uh, thanks,” I mutter, my cheeks burning as I snatch them back and shove them deep in my purse. If there was a chance of me feeling bold, and giving him my number, along with a casual, ‘hey, if you’re ever in the same city at the same time and feel like getting naked’smile, it’s gone for good.
Along with that expensive face cream currently smeared all over the German Shepherd’s enthusiastic snout.
I cut my losses, grab my case, and turn on my heel to flee.
Still, I feel a twinge of disappointment as I race away. It’s been too long since a man made me laugh like that – all the way between my thighs. And he was handsome, too, with that sexy voice, and a great smile…
Then my phone buzzes again with another wedding emergency, and I’m too busy to think about Mr. All-Wrong.
How do you trap a butterfly, anyway?
2
HAZEL
“You’re late!”
After two connecting flights, major turbulence, and a minor emergency at 10,000 feet involving a cashmere cardigan getting sucked into the toilet flush system, (whoops,) I finally arrive at the resort in desperate need of a shower, a massage, and approximately sixteen gallons of coffee.
And not necessarily in that order.
But the first thing I see when I emerge from the car, blinking at the bright tropical sunshine, isn’t a comfy beach hammock or a nice cold drink. Nope. It’s MTV Award-winning movie starlet, Avery Lawrence, glowering at me in a blush-pink workout set, with her hands on her svelte, cellulite-free hips.
“This wedding is already a nightmare,” she continues, her blonde hair falling in perfect glossy waves despite the humidity, and her skin glowing with a kind of radiance that only the very best facialist in Beverly Hills can provide. “The planners are off somewhere doing god knows what, and the welcome feast isn’t even half set up, and DeeDee says she’s a Kibbie natural and can’t wear a scoop neck so she’s already had her bridesmaid dress altered, but my gown is a V-neck, and now she won’t match!”
