I straighten my spine, well, as much as one can when they’re on their hands and knees, refusing to be intimidated. "My bag… it never made it out."
He crosses his arms, his safety vest pulling tight across his chest. "And what does that tell you?"
I match his bored expression. "That you're incompetent."
"Lady, all of the bags on the flight were unloaded." He gestures at the empty carousel behind me with a dismissivewave. "If it's not out there, it didn't make it on the plane in Boston. Now get off the belt."
I resist the urge to shift on my knees and maintain my hard stare. “Check. Again.”
His jaw ticks. "I don’t have to. There’s no more luggage back here. There is a booster seat. Yours?"
"Do you really want to have to deliver it to me three hours away tomorrow?"
"I don't deliver bags." He kicks at a stray piece of paper on the ground and snorts. "Besides, I’m off tomorrow."
"Cute. You know what I mean."
His eyes drop from my face in a slow, deliberate slide, his attention landing somewhere in the vicinity of my cleavage with all the finesse of a drunk frat boy at last call.
The corner of his mouth curls up. "What do you want me to do, whip out my magic wand and alakazam it here?"
And there it is—the eyebrow waggle. The universal signal of male mediocrity that keeps Charlie’s sex toy party side gig thriving.
Why did all guys turn into pigs who thought they had the power to fix all of our problems with a sixty-second ride on their underwhelming dicks?
"Next you're going to make some nine and three-fourths reference. How original. And—" I peruse him from head to toe, my lip curling. "—optimistic of you."
His grin slips and his eyes narrow, two red splotches forming on his cheeks. "You know what your problem is?"
I tap my chin in mock thought. "Aw, a classic from the Old Testament of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Never Getting Laid. You might want to check out the New Testament—I hear they’ve upgraded it from when shoulder pads were considered power moves."
He takes a menacing step forward, his work boots scuffing on concrete. "Listen, princess, why don't you go back to your first-class lounge and let the adults handle this? I'm sure daddy's credit card can replace whatever's in that missing bag."
My fingernails dig crescents into my palm as his words land exactly where he aimed them. "That bag has my entire future in it. I swear to God?—"
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Squirt?"
The deep baritone slices through the terminal's chaos, and every cell in my body stands at attention. That damn voice. So familiar, yet somehow grittier, more dominant—nope—commanding—blurgh—than I remember, rolls through me. A shiver starts at my nape and cascades down my spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind while an unwelcome heat blooms in my chest.
Anyone but him, dammit.
My brother's best friend—and the only man who's ever pushed me to the opposite extremes of wanting to climb him like a tree and throat punch him—looms somewhere behind me.
Of course GI Joe would catch me like this—on my knees, fighting with airport personnel.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I resist the urge to snap at him because I know exactly what I'll find when I turn around. Six feet plus of sculpted Army perfection hugged by cargo pants, a Henley that hides nothing, and disapproval.
And I'm definitely not ready to face the one man who's always made me feel simultaneously too much and not enough—especially on my knees.
My life is officially a Hallmark movie directed by Satan.
Chapter Two
Chance
Things I expectto see walking into Portland International to pick up Holly McAdams:
