Page 4 of Every Heartbeat After

ChapterTwo

Tess

“You’ve gotto be kidding me.”

I roll my head back and pinch my eyes closed. We’ve been taxiing on the runway for at least thirty minutes, waiting for our gate to open up. The man beside me—midfifties, big belly, bigger attitude (you know the type)—is losing the cool he never had. And with no one riding in the middle seat between us, he’s decided I’m the best person to receive his aired grievances.

He leans closer, assuming I somehow didn’t hear his first groaned complaint. “I paid good money to be on the first flight, and at this rate I could’ve slept in and taken the second. So fucking ridiculous.”

The flight attendant, who wears the kind of empathetic expression that tells me she hasn’t been at this long enough to become jaded, pauses by our row. “Sir, we understand delays are never ideal, but?—”

He cuts her off with a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a snort, followed by a muttered, “Oh, fuck off.”

A little of the light behind her amber eyes dims. She shuffles past, realizing this is a battle that’s not worth fighting.

I’m beginning to wish I’d driven.

Never mind that the drive from the small town where I live in Alabama to Loveless, Colorado, would take the better half of twenty-two hours, when I’ve only scheduled a few free days off work. Flying next to this asshole is worth it solely for the precious extra hours it gains me with my uncle.

Uncle.I roll the word around in my head, trying to familiarize myself with it. It’s no less strange than the moment it popped up on my LineageDNA results. Gary Barbeau is in his late sixties, with no kids and a family that’s all but gone, much like mine. Yet somehow, a shimmering thread stretched between us in the form of a college fling my late grandfather never knew resulted in a child. The woman married a different man, who raised Gary as his own. My grandfather went on to marry my grandmother, producing a daughter who would one day have me.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Briefly I allow myself to wonder what Mom would think if she were here. A half-brother she never knew she had. After generations of only children, what a surprise that would’ve been.

It aches more than I’d like, so I shove it down into my heart and lock the door. Another time. Today is a happy day.

Finally the plane rolls into place at the gate and all aisle seaters, apart from myself, shoot up like a light. I mostly refrain because it irritates me to no end that everyone’s in a rush to go nowhere, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that revels in the waves of agitation rolling off my seatmate at the perceived delay I’m causing him.

“You can go,” he says. Or grunts. His anger-honed tenor makes everything sound less like words and more like an animalistic insistence that Imove.

I consider holding the line, but Gary mentioned a friend of his would be waiting to pick me up, and I’m already running behind. The Southern manners in me win out in the end, and I force myself to rise and grab my bag from the overhead bin. The weight of it slaps against my spine as I slip the pack onto my shoulder. The kind flight attendant is tucked into a row of empty seats a few feet ahead, watching as each passenger marches single file down the aisle. I offer her a genuine smile as I pass. “You’re amazing. Just ignore the assholes,” loud enough for said asshole to overhear.

It earns an indignant huff from him but an appreciative nod from her, so it’s worth it.

Denver International Airport was designed to maximize step count while minimizing efficiency. By the time I make my way out of the building, exchanging insufficient AC for balmy summer air, sweat adheres my flowy trousers to my thighs. I’m grateful for the sliver of skin showing beneath my crop top, especially when the mountain breeze rushes in to kiss it.

I scan the row of vehicles parked along the curb outside baggage claim, searching for the blonde woman with wild curls from the photo Gary sent me a few weeks back when he first broke his ankle and realized he wouldn’t be able to pick me up. When I don’t spot her, I retrieve my phone from my pack. I know Gary texted me her number at some point.

I find our thread (ensuring it’s Gary B instead of Gary Z—my boss from an ill-fated endeavor as a diving instructor a few summers back) buried beneath a slew of unread messages from various people I swear I’ll get back to eventually. My uncle, too, has a blue dot next to his name indicating I’ve missed a text. I click on it and tuck my sunglasses onto my head.

Gary B

Zoey has to work, so I’ve tapped into my local resources and found a replacement. Look for the sheriff’s cruiser.

I fire off a reply, letting him know I’ve landed and will be en route shortly, then I dial the number he sent in a follow-up message. The first ring rolls through just as my gaze lands on a black SUV withSheriffemblazoned along white door panels. A man leans against it, his chin tucked and his phone in his hand. I’m already walking toward him when he lifts it to his ear and his voice reaches through the line.

“Kit Llewellyn speaking.”

A grin spreads across my face for no reason. “Kit Llewellyn, are you here to pick me up?”

His gaze lifts and our eyes meet. My body reacts to him before my mind can even process his sharp jawline and violence-bent nose. Despite the oppressive heat, a chill runs through me. My steps falter. I capture more details, like his tousled blackish-brown hair and thin lips that form a tense line beneath high cheekbones. His hazel eyes have entered my field of vision by the time I remember to hang up the phone.

His mouth opens and then closes. A corner lifts. I feel more than see the path of his gaze as it travels over me, gone just as quickly as it comes.

When he once again settles on my face, the crooked grin becomes a genuine smile. “You must be something special.”

I pause, hand on my bag’s strap where it rests against my ribs. “Excuse me?”

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