“Great,” I murmur. “Here comes the fan club.”
I don’t miss Daltyn’s smirk deepening as he shakes the guy’s hand and patiently stands there while the man gushes about last season and how pumped he is for this one.
I tune it out and reach for my purple suitcase. But Daltyn’s huge arm reaches over me and snatches it before I can.
“I had it.”
He raises a brow, looking down at the suitcase that now rests by his boots. “No, you didn’t.”
I roll my eyes. “I meant, I could’ve gotten it while you interacted with your fan.”
He stares at me. “You seem irritated. Is it because I grabbed your luggage? Or the dude talking to me?”
I rub my temples. “Neither. It’s from life in general.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me.
I hate that. Being the center of attention makes me babble.
And he knows it.
“In case you’ve forgotten, my life hasn’t been a barrel of roses lately. Stalked by my psycho ex. A hurricane hit during my vacation. Losing my home and belongings. Turbulence on the plane.”
I sigh.
“The universe hates me.”
Which makes Daltyn Guyer make even less sense.
He looks amused, irritating me even more. “The universe doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh yes. I can see that by all the good luck it just keeps throwing at me.” I point at him. “Stop smirking.”
“Can’t. You’re cute when you’re melting down.” He grabs the rest of my luggage while I’m simultaneously flattered and pissed by the words “cute” and “melting down.”
I cross my arms. “I’m not melting down.”
I glare at him, hating the way the lights highlight the golden strands in his hair.
Turning, I reach for the handle of my suitcase, but he somehow wrangles it away and starts dragging four suitcases and two carry-ons like it’s nothing.
“Come on, Peyton. Let’s go home.”
Home.
That word should be outlawed by Webster’s dictionary for reminding me I’m homeless and about to shack up with the hot goalie that won’t stop smirking at me.
Fuck my life.
My heels click over the floor as I race after his long legs. And he’s not even walking at his normal speed. In fact, he’s moving much more slowly than usual.
When I fall in step beside him, he glances at my sandals. “Those things are an accident waiting to happen.”
“They are not,” I pant, ignoring the pain in my feet. I glance down at them. They’re damn cute and make my pedicure look amazing.
“Four-inch heels aren’t practical. Especially not in an airport.”
“Neither are ice skates. Yet you skate around in them.”
