I know this because I was equally as rooted just inside the terminal.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Watched her. Full stalker mode.
Like a grade-A weirdo.
God. She was waiting for me to come back, while I was being a fucking idiot.
Annoyed, I shove a hand through my hair and pace the room, the need to see her again sparking to dumpster fire levels.
I reach for my wallet.
Then put it down.
Because the truth is, if I’m within breathing distance of that woman and her out-fucking-rageous curves again, all the restraint I’ve been hoarding will blow. She’ll be against the nearest wall and I’ll be dick-deep in the epicenter of her one-woman disaster zone.
And no good can come of that.
None at all.
My thumb drags over the ringless finger. “Is it time, Cecile? What do I do?”
Silence.
I guess my dead wife’s still not talking to me.
I draw in a breath and let my eyes wander over the full spread of Christmas overkill.
Glittery ornaments.
More garland than Lowe’s.
Lights strangling every square inch.
My gaze snags on a sad, crooked motivational poster that has no business here.
Love doesn’t pass you by.
It collides.
What the hell?
I look at the poster again, unsettled.
Why is it here?
And why am I irritated by it?
Probably because it’s exactly the sentimental bullshit my sister tries to spoon-feed me every chance she gets. Usually in meme form.
Did she put it here?
So what if Pix and I collided?
Twice.
I shake my head, hard, and remind myself I have exactly three priorities: Connor, Ollie, and Snook.
Add in a job that eats me alive and enough emotional baggage to fill a barge, and I am not anyone’s great love story.
