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She takes a slug of champagne and slumps back in her chair, blowing at a dark curl that keeps falling into her eyes. She’s cute. Such a sour little grump.
I shouldn’t care, but damn it, Ireallydon’t like the idea of her ending up with another broken heart.
Leaning in, I brush the offending curl behind her ear. Get a little distracted by the softness of the strands and the slow rise of her eyes meeting mine. How they hold there. And this weird, almost painful ache in the center of my chest—
She blinks. “I have an idea.”
Her smile spreads, and a light fills her eyes that has me thinking whatever it is— streaking down the strip, jumping in the Bellagio fountain, or letting one of those guys staked out every five feet on the strip actually sell us tickets to a show —I’m in.
“Let’s hear it.”
Her hands come up in excited fists at her shoulders. “Yes!”
I chuckle, all the bullshit from this morning evaporating beneath the warmth of her smile.
Riffling through her purse, she comes up with a pen and then waves the cocktail napkin from her champagne at me.
“You’re going to love this!”
2
Winter Break – a year later
Stormy
It’s. Never. Him.
IthinkI see him everywhere. On the sidewalk. In the market. Across a crowded lobby. Around every corner and down each concourse.
For a year, I’ve imagined our paths crossing, fate tossing us together once more.
And for a year, it hasn’tbeen him.
I’ve told myself to stop looking, to shut down that breath-held double take. To ignore the crazy mix of excitement, fear, and anticipation thrumming through my veins. To stop wondering what he’d say. If he’d stop, or if our eyes would meet, holding through one weighted beat before we continued on our separate ways, a secret smile curving our lips.
I’ve gotten pretty good at stifling that impulse. At least outwardly.
Maybe too good because this time, I shouldn’t have ignored the blurred figure in my periphery as I followed the exit ramp out of short-term parking at O’Hare. I shouldn’t have dismissed the tingle at the back of my neck as wishful conjuring.
I should have stopped. Looked back.
And then I should have hit the gas, gotten the hell out of there, and disappeared into Chicago’s holiday traffic.
Because this time,it’s him.
Diesel. Or whatever his real name is. The kindred spirit from Vegas last year who was looking for the same escape I was. The one who promised we’d never see each other again and then sealed it with a kiss.
The man who just followed me home.
Slinging my carry-on over my shoulder, I blink past the snowflakes clinging to my lashes.
I can’t believe it’s him, but I recognize the thick fingers plowing through a fall of dark hair and the groove digging deep between eyes I’ve dreamed of too many nights.
Long, powerful legs encased in dark jeans come into view as he rounds the car abandoned half on the curb, engine still running. Seemingly oblivious to the guy bellowing animatedly from the passenger seat, Diesel closes the distance between us.
I gulp and, like a total chicken, dart toward my building.
“Jane!”
