I buy the dress, the boots, and everything else Mina picked out.
The conference is two weeks away, but by the time we’re back at my place, we’ve assembled my entire wardrobe, accessories and all.
I hug Mina and say, “What would I do without my personal stylist? Seriously. I think you may have missed your calling.”
She shrugs, mouth curling at the corner, and says, “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.”
I see her out, then spend the next hour working on more ideas for James’s presentation.
The next two weeks pass in a flash of client meetings and legal research. I’ve been so busy that the thought of a week in Nashville, even if it is for a work conference, is actually starting to sound like a nice break.
Chapter 21
Nothing makes a group of lawyers more irate than a TSA checkpoint at 6:42 a.m.
The line at Terminal C is long, and already the senior associates are fidgeting with their watches, passive-aggressively sighing whenever a parent with a stroller clogs the lines.
James is in front of me, of course.
He travels in his own kind of uniform: slate suit, white shirt, navy tie, leather duffel bag with worn initials stamped on the side. He’s not even pretending to make small talk, his eyes fixed on the conveyor.
I watch the way he slips out of his shoes and belt, every movement precise, as if he’s done this a thousand times and never once surrendered an ounce of dignity in an airport.
The rest of our colleagues are a hungry flock, elbowing toward the bins, wrangling laptops and toiletries and, in one case, a half-eaten breakfast burrito that almost causes a catastrophic incident with the TSA agent.
I’m behind him with my suitcase, my purse wedged under one arm.
When it’s my turn to load the conveyor, I try to do it without issue, but the TSA officer is already flagging my laptop, then my toiletries, then my shoes.
I stand on the yellow footprints, watching as James’s belongings glide through the X-ray while my things are detained for further screening. There is something mortifying about standing in your thin dress socks while a stranger in a blue vest rifles through your bag of travel-size shampoo and conditioner.
When TSA finally releases my items, James is waiting for me past the metal detector, arms crossed, shoes and belt already back in place.
I want to say something witty, or at least self-deprecating, but all I manage is a grimace, my hands full of loose items as I try to reconstitute myself. I quickly slip my shoes back on and stuff everything back where it goes.
He holds out his hand for my suitcase wordlessly, takes it from me, then leads the way to the gate.
The walk is brisk, silent but for the whine of suitcase wheels and the distant drone of gate announcements, all of which sound like they’re being broadcast from underwater.
At the gate, the rest of the team is already there, sprawled in a cluster of seats, laptop bags used to claim them. James sits at the edge, scanning his tablet with a focus that annihilates any hope of conversation. There’s a spot next to him, and I take it, ignoring the way my heart sneaks up into my throat at the proximity.
He doesn’t look up, but he does ask, “You okay?” His voice is low, meant only for me.
“Uh, yeah, airports make me a little nervous,” I mutter.
He smiles. “Airports. Me. Anything else?”
“Turbulence,” I say on an exhale. “But I have my Kindle with me, so I’m just gonna zone out and read. I’ll be fine.”
“What are you reading?” he asks, and I hesitate before answering.
What’s the most appropriate way to tell your boss you’re reading smut?
“It’s uh…a romance novel.”
“Uh-huh. And what’s it about?” he presses, but I’m saved from having to conjure up a suitable answer by the overhead announcement that our group is now boarding.
We file onto the plane, James in front of me. He finds his row, tossing his duffle bag into his seat, then turns around. He grabs my suitcase by the handle and hoists it overhead into the luggage compartment. Then he takes his seat and looks at me expectantly.
