Page 8 of Delicate Storm

It’s time to get back to reality.

And my reality is a mess of epic proportions.

We thankfully move on to morestranger-appropriate topics like the weather and favorite TV shows, with my seatmate chatting away for five minutes to every ten seconds from me. I’d say it was convenient that she was a talker since I don’t like to talk, but the point is… I. Don’t. Like. To. Talk. Period. And she’s failed to realize that despite my many clues.

She asks me if I watch reality TV and what type of music I listen to. She asks if I prefer to be hot or cold. She asks if I’ve ever been to Alaska. For someone that was starving, she barely touches the food in front of her, spending the time talking instead.

The conversation bounces around more than a pigskin during a football game, but she never once asks what I do for a living. Something most would consider a go-to question when engaging in small talk, but I consider it a win.

I could tell from her very first glance in my direction that she didn’t recognize who I was. And that’s a rarity. Especially since winning the Super Bowl. Hell, I was stopped in Scotland for a goddamn photo with an Australian tourist. Yes, I’m fifty percent sure my friend set it up to piss me off, but there’s still a fifty percent chance I’m wrong. Of course, he’ll never admit it. He’s not much of a talker either or a jokester for that matter, which is why in this situation he made the perfect companion. If he was anything like my seatmate here, I would have been on the next plane home.

After the flight attendant collects our trash, the woman falls silent beside me, and I take the opportunity to turn on a movie, making it clear that our sharing time is over.

Thankfully, she takes the hint, at least until the seatbelt sign comes on as the captain prepares to land.

“You said San Francisco was home, right?” she asks, further proving my point that she doesn’t know me, her perfectly sculpted brow lifting in question.

“Idid.” I drag out my response, hesitant as to why she’s asking, hopeful this isn’t leaning toward more personal topics now that we’re almost saying goodbye.

Her eyes light up and she swivels in her seat to face me, giving me a proper view of her face for the first time, and fuck me because I was wrong. She’s not just a pretty mouth; she’s goddamn beautiful.Annoying, but beautiful.

“That’s great,” she says, beaming again, drawing my gaze to her lips once more, momentarily distracting me. “Any good restaurants I should know about?”

I internally relax. Restaurants I can do. While I love cooking, I don’t get a lot of time to be creative, so I rely on my favorite restaurants to satiate my taste buds. “I know a few. Any particular area?”

She mentions neighborhoods that I’d consider too close to home but I don’t let on, instead giving her a few options for each until she hits me with a satisfied smile.

“Thank you. I’ve vacationed there, but never for more than a few days. It won’t take long to find my feet, but I’m grateful for the head start.”

I hold back from saying “anytime” because that would be a lie. She caught me in a situation I couldn’t escape from; otherwise, I would have found an excuse to hightail it out of there.

“Good luck,” I say, giving her a small nod, ending the conversation.

“Thank you. I’ll leave you alone now. Give you some peace before the chaos begins.”

Chaos?She has no idea. And yet, I have never wanted to get home so badly in my life. Mess aside, I can’t wait to see my son.

Iopen the windows in my truck to keep myself awake and call my mom on the drive, letting her know that I’m on the way. I should have slept on the plane, but Miss Chatterbox beside me wouldn’t let that happen. Not that I tried to stop her. The second she flashed me her adorable but pleading smile—a look I don’t think she realized she was giving—I was done for. Before my son was born, that wouldn’t have affected me. In fact, it probably would have had the opposite effect and repelled me. But now, it’s safe to say he’s softened me a bit. Though Ihadthought my weakness was only reserved for him… I guess it’s expanding.

My mom tells me that Isaac’s napping, so I stop by my house on my way, instantly regretting it.

A guy in an over-the-top pinstripe suit hovers in my driveway as I come to a stop behind him, his eyes widening when he registers who I am. I’d question why, if I hadn’t passed the obnoxious for sale sign littering my front lawn.

Macy is selling the house.

My exis sellingmyhouse.

I’ve only been gone for a week. Can people really get things moving that quickly?

The guy recovers and smiles, waving as he steps away from his bright red sports car, moving toward me. My gaze drops to my gear shift. I could easily change into reverse and get the hell out of here. But what’s that going to achieve? I can only escape for so long, and it’s not going to change the outcome.

I slowly step out of my truck, greeting my houseguest with a glare.

“If it isn’ttheEaston Wilder.” The agent pretends not to notice my annoyance. “Nice to meet you.” He rushes over, failing to hide his confusion…or is he equally as annoyed?

“Macy didn’t mention you’d be here,” he says, checking his phone.

Of course she didn’t. She didn’t mention we were selling the house.

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