But the universe apparently had other plans, because a second later, my phone buzzed again.
Foster.
I answered with a sigh so dramatic I could’ve won a daytime Emmy.
“What now?”
“Miss Carrington …” He sounded nervous. “There’s been an incident on the runway. Security’s rerouting traffic. I won’t be able to reach the hangar entrance for at least forty-five minutes. Possibly longer.”
I blinked. “You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m stuck behind a fuel truck and some kind of … flamingo situation.”
“Flamingo?”
“Plastic. On the tarmac. Not sure. I’m working on it.”
“You mean to tell me,” I said, voice rising, “that I’m stranded at a hangar in the middle of the Charleston heat because of plastic birds?”
A beat of silence. Then, tentatively: “Would you like me to call for another vehicle?”
“No,” I hissed. “I would like you to develop basic logistical competence, Foster. That’s what I would like.”
I hung up before he could respond.
I stared at the blank screen.
Then I stared at the shimmering heat rising from the pavement.
Then I stared at my sandals—hand-stitched leather already darkening from sweat—and decided that yes, this was hell.
“You good?” Charlie’s voice came from behind me, lazy and irritatingly amused.
I spun around. “No, I’m not good. My driver is trapped behind some sort of … lawn ornament catastrophe and I’m melting.”
He gave me a slow, knowing smile. “Told you. The universe is funny like that.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t suppose you have an air-conditioned waiting area?”
He shrugged. “Not unless you count the front seat of my truck.”
I looked at the truck again. It was even uglier up close. Black, dented, and sun-faded, with a windshield that looked like it had been personally assaulted by a sandstorm.
“I’m not riding in that.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, already walking back toward it.
I stared at his back. Broad. Tan. Muscles moving like he hadn’t a care in the world. And honestly? He probably didn’t. Men like him rarely did.
I turned away, pulled out my phone, and checked the Uber app.
No cars available.
Of course.
My gaze flicked to the surrounding area. The hangar was quiet. No staff. No other passengers. Just me, a dead zone of private tarmac, and a man who looked like he changed his own oil and enjoyed it.
I could wait. I could melt. I could ruin my shoes.
