Page 36 of This is a Kissing Book

“Yeah. Stormy night ahead.”

And here we are, talking about the weather. Not too smooth, Andresen.

With a little wave, she gets off the elevator at the thirty-third floor as if the heated, intense moment we shared the other day while riding up, never happened.

“Have a good weekend,” I call, but the doors close before the words are out.

16

LINC

A hockey fan gets on the elevator from one of the businesses on a lower level and we take a selfie. I’m thankful Juliana got off early—no need for her to know more about me than she already does.

I hurry through the parking garage and am pulling out when the sky cracks open with heavy rain. While waiting for the light to change, a high-pitched buzzing makes my blood run cold. An insect flies around inside the car, small and dark and definitely stingy. Unless I stop short in traffic, there’s nothing I can do.

The thing darts right and left and then repeatedly batters the windshield, desperate but dumb.

On the other side, the wipers slide back and forth, dizzying in the downpour, as the bug, stunned now, flies drunken loops around the interior of my vehicle.

I want to remain in Noah’s Ark and the bee wants out.

I slide the rear window down slightly, hoping the fresh air will coax it to freedom, but the downpour must scare it. Now, it hastens to the driver’s side window.

Sweat beads at my hairline. Suffice it to say, my bee allergy and enclosed spaces don’t mix well.

“Okay, nice little bug. Go on outside,” I whisper, as I lower my window, inviting in the torrential downpour and fogging the windows.

The fast, fat drops smear across the windshield as the bee takes an interest in my forehead. I gently swat at it, but don’t want to antagonize it. Now in rush hour traffic, I turn the corner a little too fast as if the bee were chasing me. A wave of water rises and sprays … not only a walk signal pole but … a woman.

A woman with gray eyes. Blonde hair. And … a glare.

Oh, this is bad.

It couldn’t have been a normal person.

Or someone who enjoys getting splashed by filthy gutter water.

Instead, Juliana stands just outside a crowded bus shelter with no umbrella, completely soaked because of me, as if the rain weren’t enough.

The bee does an aerial gymnastics routine as it whirls and loops, frantic. I simultaneously struggle to control the windows, the wiper blades, and the turn signal while wondering what to do regarding the woman I just sprayed with water.

I could keep driving. But as she hollers whatever delicate obscenities she can muster out of that pretty little mouth, our gazes meet.

A flicker of recognition passes across her face, followed by a scowl.

I’m caught.

Without thinking, I stop by the curb and roll down the window. “Get in!”

She stalks over to me, arms gesturing like she regularly occupies this corner and consults the pigeons about mutual funds. “Why would you⁠—?”

“It was an accident.”

“Yeah, right. You’re a bully, you know that!”

“Just get in.”

“I’m waiting for the bus!”