My head tilts but my body is jostled as my neighbor, who I am guessing is a body builder of some sort with thighs twice the size of Roddy’s and a tight black tank top that barely covers his bulbous pectorals that are covered with demon tats.
“Looks like we’re going to be snug, pal,” the man says with a grizzly laugh. My knees press into the back of the seat in front of me, and my feet are tucked under my seat as far as they can go, which isn’t very far thanks to the bag slid underneath me. I gave up a first-class ticket with plenty of foot room to spend two hours sandwiched between a snoring college kid and Mr. Clean.
Renleigh has already sunk back in her seat, and the flight crew is walking the aisle, closing luggage compartments and checking to make sure everyone’s seat is upright and ready fortakeoff. I wedge my hand between my hip and Mr. Clean’s and manage to come out with one side of my seat belt, along with my phone. I click the belt into place, then palm my phone and ruminate on the easiest lie I can concoct. My departure feels too fast for the onset of flu symptoms, and I don’t own anything that could be stolen in a break-in back in Sweetwater. The only thing I own right now is my name, which, though of late feels rather worthless, is a plausible excuse to dash home a day early.
I text my coaches that someone is racking up debt in my name and I need to get back to file reports with police, then promptly switch my phone into airplane mode before pulling down my tray table, laying my head to the side, and staring to my right while I wait for Renleigh to crack an eyelid and glance to her left.
Newsflash: She doesn’t for the entire two-hour flight.
Chapter 18
Renleigh
I could be that person who rushes from the plane, sprinting to a taxi and speeding off, hoping the boy will chase me. And I don’t lie to myself—I thought about it for half the flight.
But he’s on this plane. And I know he shouldn’t be. So the least I can do is hang back and deplane together. And maybe—only maybe—listen to him.
I back into the aisle to let both passengers in front of me clear out, then wait for the hulk of a man next to Hunter to grab his bag and leave. Hunter’s gaze locks onto mine as soon as muscle man’s body clears a path, and he’s quick to take me up on the opportunity to be within touching distance, it seems.
“Yeah?” His head tilts a smidge as he grabs his bag and walks backward.
“Go on. Don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s a five-minute walk from the gate to the curb. And my sister’s picking me up, so you should talk fast.”Lest I signal Lindsey when she sees you and we both attack.
“Right. Got it.” He takes in a deep breath, still shuffling backward down the aisle of the plane.
“I’m a nice guy,” he begins, and I laugh out so hard I snort and have to cover my face with my palms.
“Come on, Renleigh. You know I am. I’m not out here womanizing, racking up ladies in every city. That’s not me. You have to know that.” His head leans to one side with such sincerity, I’m forced to calm the tickle in my chest so I can hold it together and give him a fair shake.
“Hunter, I know you have a thing for IKEA furniture, and you were the number one draft pick. Those are the things you’ve shared with me. Sorry, but I’m not sure those qualifies as nice-guy characteristics.”
I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth and shrug. That was brutal to say to him, but it’s true. On top of it that, I don’t trust people, especially when it comes to relationships, and it’s a miracle I didn’t choose to sprint off the plane, then change my number . . . and address.
He nods as his gaze drops to the breezeway floor. He pivots to walk forward, slowing enough that our steps sync up, and I open my mouth to apologize for coming off harsh, but decide against it. I want him to be a nice guy, but years of experience—of watching ballplayers come and go, of watching my own parents’ toxic relationship—tells me wanting someone to be good and them actually living it are two very different realities.
“You’re right,” he finally says as we step into the jetway and enter the gate lounge.
I meet his gaze for a few steps and wait for thebut.He doesn’t refute me, though. He accepts my argument.
There aren’t many people waiting at the gate. The early evening arrival time isn’t a popular one, so there are plenty of wide-open concourses all the way to baggage claim. If I wanted to, I could hurry this conversation along and be on my way, spilling my guts to Lindsey as she drives me home. But something has me stuck when it comes to Hunter, so I slow.
“Go for a ride?” I tilt my head to the moving sidewalk, and his mouth ticks up into a faint smile.
“It’s my favorite. How’d you know?” He steps onto the moving conveyer belt first, turning to face me as I step on behind him.
“So tell me, are you normally a stand-still and ride kind of girl, or do you walk briskly and keep to the left, respecting the rules of the passing lane?” Hunter glances behind me and I follow his gaze, confirming that right now, we’re the only two on this thing.
“I’m pretty sure I can tell what version you are by the way you phrased that,” I laugh out. “And I think we’re of the same vein. People who impede the flow of traffic in the airport are . . . well . . . those are not nice guys, let’s just say.”
Hunter chuckles at my position, and nods.
“Good. One more thing we have in common.” His smirk teases me, and I mimic his expression with a tight-lipped simper of my own.
“Okay, I’ll give you one more check mark on the nice guy list. Now tell me something else.”
I swallow as a vision of Sloane’s face flashes through my mind. That’s what I really want to hear about—how she fits into things and ends up in his hotel room. But I’m willing to give him the trip out of the airport to layer his case with more personal facts.
“Hmm, well. My parents have a strange relationship, too. Not quite like yours. You take the gold in that,” he says, and I sashay a hand across my midriff before taking a bow and accepting the worst top prize ever.
