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My aunt strides toward me, announcing her arrival with my name shouted at the top of her voice. It’s the outside voice she uses to call her children in for dinner, and it’s jarringly loud through the hushed corridors of the hospital. But I don’t care as I’m folded within her vibrant pink cotton-covered arms. She’s doing her best to squeeze the breath from my body, and it feels amazing. I’m home. The second-best feeling to being hugged by my own mother. My laughter is a joyous, muffled sound against her chest. Every time I return for a visit, which isn’t frequent enough, this is her standard welcome, and I love it. It’s good to be back with my family, and I relax into Embla’s embrace as a few more vestiges of stress are released along with the air in my lungs.
Thirty-one minutes and ten seconds after I last spoke to the nurse, my aunt and I are led to the private room. At least Embla was a better distraction than the tatty old magazine, making the wait more bearable. The door swooshes as I push it open and find my mother propped up in the hospital bed, smiling her beautiful smile. Her mouth is stretched wide, and the soft skin around her eyes is creased into familiar laughter lines. My mother loves to laugh more than anyone I know. And it seems that significant reconstruction surgery on her leg is not going to stop her. I rush to hug her, careful to avoid the tubes in her wrist but not holding back any of my love. Tears threaten to fall, but I manage to hold them in as I swallow the lump in my throat.
“I love you” are the only words I manage to croak out, but they’re all that’s needed.
“Oh, my darling, I love you too, and I’m sorry I worried you.” She squeezes her arms around me with more strength than I would have thought possible, and while it’s not to the level of my aunt’s embrace, it’s enough to reassure me that she’s going to be okay.
The knots of worry finally unravel, releasing the tight ball of tension in my tummy. My stomach has been churning like a washing machine set to on since the second my aunt called to tell me of the accident, and twenty hours later, the cycle has only just finished.
“Let me see your beautiful face,” Mum begs, and when I lean back, she brushes the curtain of thick blond hair back behind my ear. It reminds me of all the times she did this when I was little. Sometimes when I was sad or hurt and other times after we’d cried with laughter from something funny that happened.
But every time, without fail, I felt the love in her touch, just like I feel it now.
Chapter three
Rory
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me ! I slump into the plastic chair near the luggage carousel and watch the last remaining bag go around. It’s not mine, though it looks suspiciously like it—same brand, color, and size. Okay, so it’s exactly the same piece of luggage, except for one crucial difference. The tag does not have my name on it.
There appears to be no airline staff around, seemingly having all disappeared along with the passengers wheeling or carrying their bags that arrived safely. There’s only one thing to do. I jump up, my hand flying to my head with the sudden movement because, of course, my head is still pounding painfully. Each step toward the solitary bag on the now-stationary carousel is another hammer-like rap on my skull. Keeping my head as still as possible, I wheel it back to the seat and sit. Hope flutters in my chest when I turn the tag over and see a name and phone number in legible black ink. There’s probably something I could tell about the bag owner through the fine flowing lettering, but all I care about at this point is getting my own luggage back.
Rapidly, I type Freya Jonsdottir’s number into my phone, and a sigh of relief escapes from my lungs as I listen to the ringtone. But two rings later, the call disconnects.
What the fuck! The relief I’d felt seconds ago deflates quicker than a popped balloon.
Silence fills my ear; there’s not even an option to leave a voicemail. Is she on another call? Or did she deliberately disconnect me? I click to redial, and again, I’m disconnected.
For fuck’s sake! I dial again, tempted to throw my phone across the polished concrete floor. Instead, a low growl rumbles up from my chest and is expelled on my next breath. It’s probably a good thing I’m the only remaining person in this area of the airport, or they’d think some rabid animal had just been let loose.
This time, a female voice answers, and her tone instantly raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Yes?” she demands.
“Is this Freya Jonsdottir?” I throw back at her with the same level of attitude. After all, it wasn’t me who took the wrong fucking bag.
“Yes, I’m Freya. Who is this?” Her voice has mellowed, and if I wasn’t in such a mood, I would probably enjoy the lilting tone and the slight accent as she says her name with a roll of her tongue.
“Rory Campbell. And I believe you picked up my luggage at the airport instead of yours.” I try to temper my tone, but it’s hard to hold back the frustration I’m feeling at her careless actions.
“How do you know that?” Trepidation coats her words.
“Because … I have an identical-looking bag right beside me, but it has your name on the tag instead of mine. And I’m still sitting at the luggage carousel, which has stopped because there are no more bags coming out,” I explain slowly, not wanting to have to repeat myself. Just to be sure, and with a touch of sarcasm I add, “I assume you collected a bag from the carousel?” My words drip sarcasm.
“Just a moment.” A rustling sounds on the other end of the phone before I’m put on hold.
But less than a minute later, she’s back. “I’m so sorry, sir.” And the way she rolls the r on sir has me listening more closely to the faint inflections of her accent. “I was in a rush to get to the hospital to see my mother,” she tries to explain, and the more she talks, the more I listen. It’s not the explanation that’s soothing my temper but the soft, elfin-like quality of her voice as she continues. “You see, she had an accident late yesterday, and I came from Dublin on the first flight to be here when she woke up from her surgery. It’s been hard getting any news, and I didn’t know how she was until I arrived at the hospital.”
She appears to catch her breath, then asks more slowly, “How do I fix this mess?” Her voice trails off into silence, and I don’t know if the question is rhetorical or addressed to me. It’s hard to focus on the words and ignore the faint sniffling. It sounds like she’s crying, and I feel like an asshole for bothering her in a distressing situation, even though none of this is my fault.
“I hope your mother is okay,” I offer, trying to erase the last remnants of annoyance from my voice. “And I can keep your bag with me until we’re able to swap them back. That seems like the simplest option.”
I don’t really want to have to try and find an airline worker to explain the mix-up, as that will probably mean I won’t see my bag until my return flight on Monday morning. That’s the way my luck is running at the moment.
“Yes, that seems to be the best. Let’s do that?” Her voice sounds a little happier with an agreed plan.
“Aye! Just one small thing. Could you give me the code to your bag so I can be reassured that I won’t get arrested by customs for bringing anything illegal into the country? I don’t think you sound like a drug courier, but you can never be sure.”
“Oh … okay, that makes sense. It’s zero-two-six. And again, I’m really very sorry to have caused you this trouble, sir.” Her reuse of the word sir has my ears pricking up and my cock twitching in appreciation. This girl, who sounds to be in her twenties, could make a fortune as a sexy voice-over.
We agree that she’ll text me when she’s finished at the hospital, then end the call. And not a moment too soon as inappropriate thoughts about the stranger on the other end of the line begin to fill my head.
