She’s chatting with a woman who looks to be around her age, as if she and the woman are the best of friends. She pulls out her phone, and I watch as the woman she’s with says something and Tatum taps on her phone. She glances up at her friend, who pulled out her phone, too, and flashes it at Tatum. From the looks of it, she just exchanged numbers with this person.
That’s Tatum. She can meet someone on a flight and end up with dinner plans next week. Or maybe she’ll be this woman’s wedding planner.
A little girl on the escalator behind her says something to Tatum, and she turns around and starts chatting up the little girl.
She hasn’t even seen me yet, and she’s surrounded in this airport by people who already regard her as a friend. She has this electric vibe surrounding her, this light that draws people in, this inexplicablethingthat people want to be a part of.
And she looks like a goddamn fairy princess as the escalator carries her down closer to me. Curled blonde locks fall to the middle of her back. She’s wearing a summery, flowery dress with heels. She’s almost always in heels. I practically see wings sprouting behind her and a halo over her head, her magic wand glowing in her palm. Or her cell phone. Either way, she’s glowing, and everyone in the vicinity can see it.
When the ride ends, she glances up, and our eyes connect across the space. A little smile plays at her lips, and she points me out to her new friend before she rushes across the small space separating us.
I heave in a deep breath, and when she reaches me, first I spot the smattering of freckles that lie across her nose and cheeks before she falls into my open arms as we hug hello, her honey perfume wrapping around me and giving me a sense of comfort that she’s really here.
It’s the same honey perfume she’s worn since high school, back when we spent a lot more time in geographical proximity to one another. A lot has changed. I see her when I visit Vegas, which isn’t as often as I’d like. I see her when she’s in town for a Vegas Heat baseball game.
That’s about it.
Her parents live in Florida, but they’re in Boca Raton, nearly four hours away from me. It may as well be Vegas for how far it is.
We study each other for a few seconds, smiles on both our faces that we’re together again.
Smiles for two different reasons, though. Her because she’s with her friend again. Me because…well, I should probably stop thinking that way.
“Ford, my God, it’s been way too long!” she says as she hugs me tightly. She pulls out of my arms to introduce me to her friend, but I can’t seem to tear my brown eyes from her gorgeous, light blue ones. “This is Morgan. We met on the plane and became instant besties. Ford, Morgan. Morgan, Ford.”
I force myself to look at Morgan. She’s beautiful, too, and I’m certain this pair of blondes turned plenty of heads as they walked off the jetway and into the terminal.
I hold out a hand to shake hers. “Pleasure.”
“She’s a middle school math teacher. Can you believe it? She was in Vegas for her friend’s bachelorette party but lives here in Tampa. And she’s a totallyhugeBeasts fan.”
“My parents have season tickets, and I still bum a few off my dad every season,” she says.
“We’re doing our best to make you proud,” I say with a smile. I wouldn’t be making the kind of money I’m making if we didn’t have a sea of fans just like Morgan, so I play the nice guy card even though I’m ready to get the hell out of here. This is all nice and great, but the longer we hang around, the better the chance others will recognize me. That’s why I want to get out of here.
Not because I want to get Tatum alone. Of course not. That would be ridiculous. She’s my brother’s ex. Recent ex.
I glance at Tatum. “We’re at baggage carousel two,” I say.
“Let’s head that way,” Tatum says, and she links her arm through my elbow.
“Excuse me, I’m going to head to the restroom,” Morgan says, and she heads in that direction while Tatum leans in a little closer to me.
“She’d be perfect for you, Ford,” she says, her tone full of excitement as she plays matchmaker.
My heart drops as I feel myself physically deflating at those five little words.She’d be perfect for you.
Excitement is not quite the emotion I’m feeling.
There’s only one woman who’d be perfect for me, but she’s not an option. Clearly.
I don’t want her to play matchmaker for me and some other woman. It always felt like she was off the table, but this pulls it even further from the table than I ever imagined.
Her suitcase arrives, her friend returns, and we bid her goodbye as we head toward my car. Once we’re buckled and on the highway headed toward the high-rise I live in that overlooks Tampa Bay, she says, “How’s your mom doing?”
“Liam called me a couple days ago to let me know she broke her back. She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” She reaches over to the hand resting on the console between us and gives it a squeeze, her touch sending a shock of need straight down to my balls. “Does Archer know?”
