Page 34 of Stirring Up Love
As for her, she’d dozed fitfully from two to five a.m., an alarm set to wake her every thirty minutes so she wouldn’t miss a boarding call and the chance of rescue from the terminal of doom. But the winter storm wreaking havoc back home kept them trapped, and with dawn came a new kind of torture. All morning she’d been trapped in a reverse staring contest with Finn.
Whenever she darted a glance his way—over the top of aForbesmagazine she’d picked up in a kiosk, or peeking around the side of the paper bag holding her grilled chicken wrap, or under pretenseof scanning the smog-filled sky above his makeshift campsite under the windows—he’d been sprawled on his back, resting, or thumbing through a worn paperback, looking totally chill.
Couldn’t he at least have the dignity to look exasperated? Annoyed? Impatient? To maybe pace the terminal or roll his eyes or clench his jaw like any other traveler who’d been trapped in an airport for going on a full day?
Not like she should’ve expected impatience from the man who’d showed up to every farmers’ market all summer, implacable as a midstream boulder. Unmoved by her attempts to get rid of him, with his steady presence he forced her to adjust course like a kayaker navigating the rapids.
Through persistence and charm, Finn earned the goodwill of townspeople who tended to view outsiders as the enemy. By midsummer he was selling barbecue sauce caddies knitted by the Yarn Spinners, by autumn he went home each week loaded up with a free crate of parsnips or squash or rutabagas from the Bills, and at their last farmers’ market of the year, she even caught Meg sneaking him a couple dozen eggs. Traitor.
As if stealing the hearts of her hometown wasn’t enough, he had the utter audacity to butt his way into her appearance onThe Executives. She should’ve seen this coming. Shewould’ve, if she hadn’t been distracted by his crooked grins and his dancing brown eyes and his espresso-rich voice and his stupid scuffed sneakers.
Insufferable, that’s what he was. And entirely too at ease with this long wait. Head pillowed on his duffel bag, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, one arm under his head like he was stargazing at Yosemite. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling tiles. What did he even see up there? Water-stain Rorschach tests?
She watched his chest rise, fall. A fresh pink flush spread across his angular nose and prominent cheekbones, like he’d spent the day at the beach. Like he hadn’t gone from airport to hotel to television studio tohotel to airport like she had, never allowing herself a moment to look up, look around, lest she get distracted from her mission. Like he cared more about experiencing life than wrestling it into submission.
Another inhale and he shifted, turned his head, and their eyes met. Held. One heartbeat, two ...
Simone stood up and marched away, wheeling her carry-on around aWet Floorsign outside the restroom. Once in the shelter of a stall, she took stock. For one thing, she’d let Finn catch her staring. Bad.
For another, her tights were doing murder to her intestines. Worse. She’d planned to wear this outfit for a few hours, not a full day. A novice flyer, she’d learned her lesson the hard way. Next time she’d show up to the airport in sweats.
But a bathroom outfit change sounded impossibly yucky, so she settled on taking off the tights as a compromise. Holding on to the purse hook, she slipped off one boot and shimmied the tights down. Tugged off one leg, then switched. Ah, sweet relief.
Out by the sinks, she shook out the tights and folded them into her purse. After smoothing some hand cream into her knees and shins, she retied the belt of the trench coat she refused to take off—she wasn’t taking the chance of someone walking away with the high-end coat she’d scored at a resale shop—and rubbed on some lip balm.
Feeling more human now that she’d freed her belly from the clutches of nylon, she strode out into the concourse, intent on continuing to avoid Finn until, well ... forever. Getting to know him would make cutting him out of the deal messier. Like they’d been doing all night, her eyes went straight to his spot by the windows. For surveillance purposes, of course.
Except he was gone.
Her body went tight, tingles racing up her spine. Where was he?
“Looking for something?”
She jerked and dropped the handle of her suitcase. The bag tipped forward, knocking into the back of her knees and scraping its way downto her Achilles. She hobbled away, swearing, and slipped on the wet floor. Arms outstretched, she braced for the inevitable smack of tile, but Finn grabbed her around the waist and swung her up into his arms.
“Steady there, Tornado.” Cradling her, Finn sent down a warm smile at her, and wow.Yes, please.
He’d just swept her off her feet like Lancelot, and used a nickname that might have been better reserved for a ranch horse, but for some reason she was all about it.
But he was setting her down already, his arms steady and solid around her. The second her feet hit the floor, it was a slap of cold, hard reality.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, startle you.”
Lies. He always meant to startle her; his whole being was specially designed to knock her off balance. She bent and grabbed the handle of her carry-on, then headed back to her seat before someone else snatched it away.
“Are you really going to just walk away?”
Glaring over her shoulder, she said, “Did you want a thank-you for catching me after you made me fall?”
“I did not make you fall.” He caught up to her, walked alongside. “You slipped. I caught you.”
“I slipped because you snuck up on me.”
“I did not sneak up on you! I just wanted to give you this.” He held out her phone, and she scowled. She wouldn’t put it past him to have pickpocketed it to get in her head. “You left it on the seat, and I figured it was worth losing our little avoidance game to return it to you.”
So he’d been playing along? Didn’t matter. Shouldn’t make her heart squeeze. “It wasn’t a game,” she said to silence the pitter-patter of her heart.
“Oh, so we weren’t playing staring-contest chicken?”
