“You know I love you, Mel. You’ve always been one of my favorite people to work with.”
Within an hour, I have something I got rid of two and a half years ago: Beckett Nash’s cell phone number.
Chapter 9
By the time our plane landed, I felt more comfortable with Beckett than I’d felt with a man in a very long time. We were taxiing on the runway, headed to the gate, when he asked me, “So, are you staying in the low rise area or the high rise?”
“The Renaissance, actually. It’s in the capital.”
“No way—seriously?”
“Yes way. Why? Where are you staying?”
“Also the Renaissance. My cousin has a timeshare. I bought the week from him.”
“Holy shit! That’s crazy,” I laughed. “Now you’ll be stuck with us for the whole week.”
“I wouldn’t saystuck,” he replied. “I enjoyed our flight, actually. I mean, as much as you can enjoy flirting with death over an ocean at twenty thousand feet.”
“I enjoyed it too.” I grinned. “The flight, not the flirting. With death!” I added. “Not, like, um, flirting…”
He laughed. “I get it.”
Our plane reached the gate and mayhem ensued. People began standing, reaching into overhead bins for carry-on bags, passive-aggressively shoving their way out of the plane, eager to start their vacations. “Wanna share a cab?” Beckett asked me.
“Sure. We need to go to baggage claim first.”
“Me, too,” he said.
I nodded, remembering that he’d checked his bag at the gate.
At the jetway, I motioned for Beckett to go on ahead while I waited for my mom to make her way out of the plane. I stood to the side with the wheelchairs and strollers (none of which were designated for my mother, thankfully) and finally, after the crowd thinned out from all the rambunctious travelers, there she was.
“Where’s your seat treat?” Mom asked.
“My God!” I exclaimed. “Wow, Mom. Really?”
“It took me the whole flight to come up with that one. I had a few others, but they were less appropriate.”
“Yes, because we’re nothing if not appropriate, right?” I asked. “He’s waiting for us up ahead. We’re going to share a taxi. He’s staying at our hotel.”
“Shut up! Seriously? That’s a hoot!”
“Nope. Nobody says ‘hoot.’” I laughed. “You get it all out right now, please.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you. I’m super cool, Pretty Girl,” she replied, as we walked up the jetway together. Upon emerging from the tunnel, Beckett greeted us with a warm smile.
“Hello again,” he said.
“I’m afraid I am extremely frail,” Mom began. “I’ll need you to walk me down to baggage claim.” She held her elbow up to Beckett, and he slipped his arm through the space she created for him, hooking himself to her. I rolled my eyes and suppressed a cackle.
“You don’t look a day over forty, Mrs.…” He paused.
“Miss,” she corrected him with a wink. “Paulson. Birdie Paulson. I never married. I’m very progressive in that way.”
I shook my head.
“I like the name,” he said. “Is it short for something?”
