Page 11 of The Suitcase Swap

‘It’s you,’ she said.

Mike nodded as if this was something he needed to agree to; that he was, in fact, himself. She looked a lot better now than she had – there was colour in her cheeks, and her skin no longer had that clammy sheen to it that people sometimes got when they didn’t feel well. His deeply unhelpful brain decided to gleefully announce that this,thismust be Sophie of the green, silken knickers, and chose this second as the best time to conjure up images of her wearing them.

His mouth went dry. If he licked a stamp right now, nothing would happen. When was the last time he’d licked a stamp, anyway? Also, why was his brain such a traitorous bastard? He’d never thought they were friends, but he’d at least thought they were uneasy allies.

And why, why was he so fixated on her knickers? Lingerie had never really been a thing for him before. Was it just that it had been ages since he’d held anything like that in his hands? Maybe his kids were right. He did need to get out more if this was all it took for him to act like his brain had melted. He hadn’t even greeted her yet. His mouth had stopped working, which might be a good thing, considering the mess his thoughts had become.

He was just . . . staring at her. To be fair, she was staring back, but it had to be unnerving. How long had they beenlike this? When had timed stopped moving properly? What was wrong with New York anyway, that it just let time do whatever it wanted? He felt a fine mist of sweat break out on his brow. Without thinking, he grabbed one of the glasses of water off the table and drank it.

‘Pretty sure that was mine,’ the man said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

‘Sorry,’ Mike replied, but didn’t relinquish the now empty glass. He cleared his throat. ‘No headlines, then?’

‘You’re safe from mobs crying for retribution.’ She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Sophie Swann.’

He reached out to take her hand, realized he was still holding the empty glass, and set it down hastily. ‘Michael Tremblay.’ Her warm palm slid against his and he felt it all the way to the backs of his knees, which made no sense. His brain continued to mutiny and chose that moment to point out that Sophie-of-the-green-knickers didn’t have a wedding ring. She also didn’t have anyone there with her currently. Which didn’t mean anything, damn it, it was just dinner, only dinner.

Mike swore he could hear his own brain laughing at him and wondered if he should maybe see a doctor.

Someone cleared their throat. ‘And I’m Enrico. Any chance I can get through? Table nine has been waiting for a fork for, like, ten minutes.’

Mike blinked at the busboy. ‘The ones that were on the floor?’

Enrico shot him a scathing look. ‘I took those to the kitchen already. These are new.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Sophie said, stepping out of the way. She pulled Mike with her, which made him realize he was still holding her hand. He dropped it, regretfully, dragging the suitcase out of the way.

The other man at their table stood up and took the handle. ‘I’ll put it back here with your suitcase. It’s out of the way.’

‘Thank you,’ Mike said. He looked to Sophie. ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’

‘I can’t believe it’s me, either,’ Sophie said, moving around him, taking the seat by the wall. ‘Sit down, sit down. Marisa, Tom, this is the man who helped me earlier at the airport.’

Tom brightened at this. ‘That was you? We owe you a bit of thanks, then.’

‘That was me.’ Mike sat, a little like someone had cut his strings. He couldn’t fathom it. He’d never acted this way in his entire life – at least not sober. What was wrong with him? He ran a hand over his face.

The younger woman across from him looked at him sympathetically. ‘Long day?’

‘Today has been the second longest day of my life,’ Mike responded honestly. His brain still had that melted feeling, his usual social filter gone in the aftermath.

The woman cocked her head to the side. ‘What was the first?’

‘The day my wife died.’ Mike could have bit his own tongue. He hadn’t meant to say it. Over the years, it had got easier to tell people; it was no longer a sharp blade in his organs every time he mentioned her. He’d boiled it down to simple words – I had a wife. She died. Most people left it at that. Gave a tut and patted his arm sympathetically. No one really wanted to talk about grief. Not really.

But while it was easier to say now, he didn’t usually offer it up like that. People had to ask first. He certainly didn’t blurt it out to people he’d just met for dinner. Not evenoverdinner. They hadn’t ordered yet. Was this how he was going to be now?Hi, my name is Mike and my wife is dead?

‘Jesus,’ the young man said, picking up the glass of water that had been in front of the woman and taking a sip. ‘Forget getting you a water. Sounds more like you need the cocktail list.’

‘On it.’ Marisa plucked a small menu from her side of the table, her accent telling Mike that if she wasn’t from here, she’d lived here quite a long time. She leaned across the table, placing the cocktail menu in front of him, her expression sympathetic. ‘You need a drink?’

Mike, who had been doing a spectacular re-enactment of the facepalm emoji, lowered his hands to the table. ‘I could murder a pint right now.’

The young man, apparently named Tom, choked on his water.

Chapter Four

Marisa pounded Tom’s back with the flat of her hand as he choked on his water.

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