Yet I know he's probably not.
I see one lone baggage cart in a corral next to a far brick wall. "Stay with Paisley," I say to Maria. "I'll be right back."
The machine tells me to insert four dollars and doesn't take credit cards. What a crock! Who carries ones these days? Do I look like a stripper? I trudge back over, taking Paisley's hand. "Maria, do you have any money? We need to get a cart."
She shakes her head. "Who has cash?"
"Right?"
I turn to Kyle. "What are we going to do? We don't have cash for the baggage cart."
"Okay." He blinks slowly.
There's no way we can carry everything. Kyle just stands there. Is he going to make me beg him for the money? Screw that. I'm not begging. "How close can you get the car?"
His head slowly cocks to the side. "Well, I think they'd frown upon me driving through the building to get right up to the conveyor belt, if that's what you mean. It'd really mess up the Hertz rental counter there. Otherwise, I'm right outside."
It's about a hundred feet or so. I feel like an idiot. "Oh. Well, I think we can manage."
He looks at me, and I think I see an ever-so-slight head shake.
"I'm used to larger airports."
"Of course you are." His tone is dry. People don't interact with me with a dry tone. I don't know what to do with this.
"And I don't have any ones on me." I try to justify this situation. I'm also not used to justifying.
"So I shouldn't expect a tip then."
I may be a lot of things, but a tightwad is not one of them. "I didn't say I don't have any cash. I don't have any ones. I tip well. I'm not one of those a-hole celebrity types who expects everyone to do everything for them. I mean I do, but I pay for it."
If I'm not mistaken, I see the edge of his mouth twitch so very slightly. "Don't get your panties in a wad. Oh, this has got to be you."
He nods to the matching Louis Vuitton bags, their pale pink handles on traditional brown monogrammed leather. Both Paisley and I have two bags checked, in addition to my carry-on bag. And purse. And Paisley's backpack. And stroller. And booster seat.
Not to mention Maria's bags.
I let out a nervous laugh. "I hope you have a decent-sized car."
"No worries. It'll all fit in the back of the pickup."
My head spins to the large glass doors and windows that make up the front of the building, searching for his truck. I'm sure my eyes are the size of saucers. "You can't be serious! Do you know what the bags alone cost? Not to mention the contents. What if it flies out all over the freeway?"
Kyle laughs, pulling one bag and then another off the conveyor belt. "First of all, you need to learn to take a joke. Second of all, we don't have freeways here in New York. Third of all, unless it washes, folds, and irons your clothes for you, who cares how much it costs? A bag is a bag."
My mouth opens and then quickly closes. He's got me.
Then he mutters something that sounds like, "No wonder stars go broke and have to do things like go on reality TV shows."
I could respond. Ishouldrespond. But I don't, considering I need his help. If my mom taught me anything, it's don't bite the hand that feeds you. At least not until you've got the bone all to yourself.
She didn't give me a lot of life skills other than using my sex appeal to get what I want, but that one's come in handy over the years.
Kyle's driving a clean—but not new—Toyota Sequoia. "Will this do?" Considering he curtsied at me a few moments ago, he's certainly gotten quite uppity. Somehow, we quickly got off on the wrong foot.
"Sure. I just … well, this isn't what I'm used to. It's good. I was just worried about losing all my stuff. I don't know when my other things will arrive, so I need the things in these bags."
"You havemorestuff coming?" Now it's his eyes that look like saucers.
