My phone.
Along with my calendar, contacts, and Apple Pay. The holy trinity of modern survival. My entire existence lives inside that backpack, along with two bikers, six billionaires, and an obscene number of lumberjacks.
Sure, technically, I could live without the boys. But my phone? Without my phone, I’m basically a pioneer woman wandering the wilderness.
And I can’t even borrow a phone to call Kali, because who memorizes phone numbers anymore?
People who churn their own butter. That’s who.
I spin, scanning the lobby, my pulse skidding out of control.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Was it stolen?
I think hard. Where did I last have it?
Realization dawns.
Oh no.
The elevator.
With Mr. Distraction and his insufferably wonderful man-scent. Gah. Who wouldn’t get distracted by him?
Lumberjack scrambled my brain like Abuela’s Sunday migas. It’s a miracle I remember my own name.
I swallow the panic and force air into my lungs.
I don’t walk. I sprint, urgency pounding with every step.
If that bag walks off, I am screwed.
I round the corner and spot the elevator.
Please still be there.
I pick up the pace.
The doors slide open just as I rush in.
And plow straight into him.
Again.
This time, I’m dragging a suitcase the size of a baby elephant.
“Oof,” he mutters, one massive arm sweeping around me and steadying me by reflex.
Our eyes lock for a beat too long. My senses kick in when I hear the faint chime of my phone.
I blink and look around.
In Lumberjack’s other hand is my black backpack.
Relief hits. “That’s mine,” I blurt, lunging for it.
