Welcome to JFK. Where patience goes to die.
I finally step in, draw a breath, and hit the button for the floor where the gates are. The elevator lurches, then crawls along at a snail’s pace.
Come on.
Eventually, it stops, and the doors glide open. I’ve barely taken a step when a pint-sized missile launches herself straight into my chest.
Impact like a bug dive-bombing into a windshield.
She ricochets off me, and I’m just about to ask if she’s okay when, defying every sane instinct she must possess, she shoves me. With both hands.
I blink, momentarily stunned that a butterfly just tried to take down a rhino. When her palms press into my chest again, I let her.
Bare face. Eyes blazing beneath a mess of ink-black hair. Curves wrapped in soft cotton. Chest heaving as she drags in air.
Utterly fucking captivating.
My pulse slams into fifth gear.
I should move.
This is my stop. If I don’t hustle, I’ll miss what’s-her-name.
Instead, I stand here.
And stare.
Like a creeper.
Which I’m blaming on being exhausted, under-caffeinated, and painfully sex-deprived.
Did I just say sex-deprived?
At this point, I’m basically a walking monastery billboard.
And the most disturbing part? The woman smells like a chocolate shake.
Not in a sexy way.
In a slightly rancid way. Coupled with the food stains on her shirt and the force she hit me with, there’s a solid chance I smell like that now, too.
And here’s the really fucked-up part. I don’t mind at all.
It’s weirdly… familiar.
And damn it, the only way I’m ditching this woman now is with a cattle prod.
Or an exorcism.
CHAPTER 7
Ava
By the time we land, it’s been the longest five hours and twenty-six minutes of my life.
The kid did puke.
Three times.
