And maybe they did.
Maybe I was the weird one for thinking it was a big deal.
I started the car and pulled out of the waiting lot, following the signs toward arrivals. The pickup lane was a mess of vehicles jockeying for position, everyone trying to squeeze into the same narrow strip of curb. I found a spot near the end, away from the main chaos and the very annoyed policeman barking at everyone to “move along.”
Then I waited.
The minutes stretched like taffy.
I watched the automatic doors slide open and closed a dozen times, releasing waves of travelers into the humid afternoon. There were business people with roller bags, families with too many children, a guy in a full cowboy outfit for reasons I couldn’t begin to guess.
But no Skyler.
I checked my phone. No new texts.
A mass of a man with blond hair stepped through the glass doors, and I recognized Erik. He scanned the cars, then his face exploded in teeth and brightened eyes as he spotted his girlfriend—no, fiancée. I watched him weave through one line after the next before popping the back of a black SUV, tossing his bag inside, then stepping around to wrap an equallyblonde woman with shoulder-length hair in his arms. Their kiss was passionate and deep in ways I’d only seen in Lifetime movies. It made my heart melt.
The annoyed cop appeared almost as soon as their lips locked, grumbling something while giving the universal motion for “get the fuck out of here.” Erik ignored him for a second, keeping their kiss going longer than the law allowed, then pulled away, clomped around to the passenger’s side, and climbed in. They drove off without either of them noticing my sad little car at the end of the line.
I adjusted my mirrors for no reason. Then I fiddled with the air conditioning and changed the radio station three times before turning it off.
The automatic doors slid open again.
And there he was.
Skyler emerged into the pickup lane like another scene from another Lifetime movie—tall and golden and beautiful, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his eyes scanning the line of cars like Erik had done. He wore navy joggers and a Lightning hoodie. His hair was mussed from the flight, one side smashed irreparably upward in the way that screamed, “I slept against the window.” He couldn’t have looked more boyishly adorable if he’d tried.
Something in my chest cracked open at the sight of him.
Two weeks.
It had only been two weeks.
But seeing him then, in person, after all those texts and calls and late-night conversations, felt like coming up for air after being underwater for too long.
His gaze landed on my car.
And his face split into a grin.
Then he was walking toward me. The crowd parted as he wove through.
I was reaching across the front seat to open the passenger door from the inside, then he was sliding into the seat beside me. Suddenly the car felt tiny and very full of Skyler Shaw.
“Hey,” he said, slightly breathless.
“Hey, yourself.”
“I can’t believe you’re here.” He was still grinning, that goofy smile that made my insides go liquid. “I thought ‘sooner than you think’ meant like, tonight at the bar, not at the airport.”
“Surprise.” I tried to sound casual, like my heart wasn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest. “I figured you’d be sick of team buses by now.”
“You have no idea.” He slammed his door shut and settled into the passenger seat with a sigh. “Murph talked for six hours straight. I think he’s trying to set a world record.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It was. This is . . .” He gestured at the car, at me, at the whole situation. “This is really nice. Thank you.”
“Anything for a VIP. I think your booth missed you.”
