“Hello? Drew?”
“What are you wearing?” I demand, trying to get back on track, but failing miserably with that unintentionally flirty comment. My hand flies up to cover my eyes as if I can somehow hide from how odd a question that was. “I just mean, so that I can find you.”
He laughs again, and it sends a second involuntary lightning bolt straight down into my belly.
“I am wearing gray slacks and a black, long-sleeve shirt.”
So, my image of him being Secret Service wasn’t far off. And yet when I walked up and down the rows a second ago, no one fit that description. Although I was only looking at SUVs or cars that looked indestructible. Maybe he came in something else. I stand on my tiptoes to survey the rows again.
“What areyouwearing?” he asks, causing my already erratic heart to skip a beat, though I just asked him the exact same question.
I look down at my daily uniform, wishing I had worn something cuter, and immediately chastise myself for even having that thought. “Jeans and a tan cardigan.”
“I’m parked in the furthest row from the building. Come back out, and I’ll look for you this time.”
We hang up, and I walk out for a second time, but have to squeeze past a crowd that has stopped to gawk at a shiny, black Audi R8 parked at the curb first. It is almost identical to the one Scott used to drive, so I understand the crowd stopping to stare. I have never cared much about cars myself, and could never dream of affording one like that, but when Scott forced me to drive his all those years ago, I added one to my imaginary list of items to buy if I ever won the lottery.
As if I would ever be lucky enough for that to happen.
I should have asked Cameron what the make and model of his car was, because, so far, there is still no one in this lane that matches his description. I make it to the end of the line and am about to turn back when a man jumps out of a Prius wearing a black zip-up and dark blue jeans. When he sees me looking, he waves and smiles.
I stall for a second, stunned at how different Cameron looks compared to his voice, and how his pants are blue jeans, not gray slacks. But the man continues to walk toward me with purpose, so I move in his direction to introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Drew,” I say, and decide that his hair is likely a toupee based on the difference in texture and color to the curly bits that hang below his ears.
“Hi, darlin. Do you need a ride?” the man asks, reaching out to take my bag. He reminds me of someone’s sweet grandpa, and it makes me feel awful for the way I was semi-flirting with him a second ago.
“Cameron, right?” I ask, noting an accent that I didn’t pick up while we were on the phone a minute ago.
“Uhh—is that far?” he asks and puts the strap of my bag over his shoulder, struggling with the weight of it.
“No, I was asking if your name was Cameron?”
“Oh, sorry. I misunderstood,” he says, plopping my bag unceremoniously into the trunk. “My name is Donnie. Nice to meet you. Where are you headed?”
“Sorry.” I step forward to remove my bag from his trunk so that he doesn’t have to struggle with it again. “My driver’s name is Cameron. When you waved at me, I thought you were him.”
“Well, darn, sorry about that. I thought you were my ride and got excited. Tell you what, I’ll hang out here for a second, and if you can’t find him, come on back and I’ll make sure you get where you’re going—”
“Donnie?”
We both turn to look up at a man who has stopped behind us, who looks closer to seven feet than six.
“Yes, I’m Donnie. Are you John?”
“Yep,” John says, then puts his bag in the trunk and folds himself into the backseat of the Prius without speaking another word.
“I’ll stall for a few minutes to make sure you get settled,” Donnie says, but I wave him off.
“I’ll be all right, I promise. Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” he says, before hobbling back to the car.
I chuckle as I walk away at how he could have seen me and thought that my name could be John when my phone buzzes in my hand.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I think I see you.”
