“I was looking for you,” he said. “We have a problem.”
“The flights.” She gestured toward the gate. “I saw.”
“Not just that.” He lifted the bag at his feet. “This isn’t mine.”
She looked at it. Yep. Gray canvas. Rolling. Identical to hers.
“This is yours.” She held up the bag she was carrying. “I think the tourist company got our tags wrong. Mine must have fallen off in transit.”
“Mine too, I think.” He pushed the bag toward her. She took it and handed him his.
But still, this one didn’t feel right either. She set the bag on a nearby seat and unzipped it. If Dakota was watching—and he was, she could feel his gaze on her back—she couldn’t exactly refuse to check the contents now. Not without raising questions she didn’t want to answer.
Inside were women’s clothing—a blue blouse, boring underwear—toiletries, not a lot of makeup. And a tawdry romance novel. But . . . not hers.
She closed the bag. Sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t my bag.” She zipped it up and set it on the floor, looked at Dakota. “I’d never wear underwear that boring.”
He raised an eyebrow, and hello, why had she said that?
He considered her for a moment, then frowned. “Which means your bag is . . .”
“With whoever owns this. Somewhere.” She zipped the bag closed. “With the rest of the tour group, probably.”
Dakota ran a hand through his hair. “This is a mess.”
“It’s a bag swap. They happen.”
“A three-way bag swap. With identical luggage. During an emergency landing and a tropical storm.” He shook his head. “What are the odds?”
Higher than you’d think, she didn’t say. Chaos created opportunities. She’d used that principle herself, more than once.
But this felt different. This felt accidental. Random.
Didn’t it?
“The tour group is in Cairns for the night, going diving tomorrow. If someone from the group has your bag, it’s probably at their hotel.”
Right. “I guess I’m catching a taxi.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She stilled, looked at him. “What? Don’t you need to get to Sydney?”
It seemed his own words had caught him up, shocked him, because he opened his mouth, and for a second, nothing emerged. Then, “Um, I think I’m stuck here anyway.” He nodded toward the windows, where rain had started to streak the glass. The sky beyond had turned bruised—dark gray and purple, heavy with the promise of worse to come. “All flights grounded until it passes. Could be hours. Could be overnight.”
Trapped. Again.
Convenient.
And what was wrong with her that she didn’t argue, didn’t hate the idea of him tagging along, for now?
He was who he’d said he was.
If she was honest, some traitorous part of her felt . . . relieved.
