My pulse spikes.
“Booked where?”
“Vegas.”
The walls feel like they’re closing in. First I’m losing this property, now Max has located Grace only to discover she’s leaving.
“And, Ben?”
“Yes?”
“She leaves tomorrow.”
20
GRACE
I’mninety percent sure this antibiotic is really a placebo. The doctor promised relief when I did that virtual visit. What it has delivered so far is the overwhelming urge to do a pee-pee dance in the middle of Richmond International Airport while pretending I’m simplyveryenthusiastic about my trip.
I used to get urinary tract infections fairly often when I was younger. They thought it was from holding my bladder too long. Which I admit, I’ve been doing a little more of lately with spending so much more time with Mom and not wanting to utilize the hospital toilets.
I need to keep hydrating, but what goes in, must come out. And that doesn’t always go well on a plane. This flight is four hours. I don’t want to spend most of it in that tiny, smelly, airplane bathroom.
I’m paying for my water, shifting from foot to foot as another bladder spasm starts to hit, when I bump into a wall of broad pec muscles and the faint, clean scent of something expensive. “Oh, sorry!” I blurt. And then I look up.
Of course. Of all the airports. Of all the terminals. Of all the tiny gift shops selling overpriced magnets shaped like flying squirrels and glittery RVA keychains, it has to be Ben. I’m already an anxious mess about this trip. Add in the urinary tract infection and the fact the last time I saw this man, I was screaming his name, and this is all sorts of awkward.
He stares at me like I’ve just stepped out of a hallucination. “Well,” he says slowly, his mouth tilting into that stupidly handsome smile, “small world.”
We exchange the uncomfortable half-hug of two people who once shared a very memorable night and now aren’t quite sure where to put their hands, or their eyes.
“You headed somewhere on vacation?” he asks.
“No. Business,” I blurt. The statement feels more than a little uncomfortable given I’ve never been associated with any business venture that would pay for my travel before. “You?”
“Same.”
His gaze dips to the water in my hand. “You look… jittery.”
Good Lord. Can I hide nothing from this keen observer? “I’m just… excited about hydration,” I lie. “Can never have enough water.” The urge to go is building. “Gotta go.”Literally.
Not even bothering with trying to appear normal, I make the mad dash to the ladies’ room, whirling my mother’s antique carry-on behind me like a slingshot.
So, that wasn’t weird. Right?
A little under an hour later,I’ve boarded the plane only to find Ben sitting in business class chatting it up with a gorgeous flight attendant.Well, Sugar Honey Ice Tea, he’s going to Vegas too?Because of course he is. I mean, what are the odds, really?
I continue to make my way down the aisle until I reach my seat. While he’s in business class, I’m in coach, wedged between a window and a man who looks like his personality is ninety percent yacht and ten percent over-priced cologne.
“I only drink imported water,” the man announces, for no reason at all.
What in tarnation?Do I look like the flight attendant? “Good to know,” I reply before quickly looking out the small window, praying he’ll catch the hint. He doesn’t. He spends the next ten minutes listing his watches, his car, and a vacation home like I’m an insurance inspector when a flight attendant appears.
“Hi, sir. Would you be willing to switch seats?” she asks him politely. “We have a couple who’d like to sit together.”
He hesitates.
I continue looking out the window as if the tarmac is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever come across so I don’t get involved in thisconversation but secretly pray he moves on, because his need to share his financial portfolio with me is giving me a headache. Before I can blink, he’s gathering his things.
