Page 1 of Jingle Bell Jilt
CHAPTERONE
SHAY
This has to be the worst idea I’ve had. We’re talking cut-your-own-bangs bad. Okay, maybe not quite THAT terrible. But close. This one takes the cake. And not the delicious vanilla cream-filled white cake with a white chocolate-coconut ganache and a bride and groom on top kind of cake.
Although this bad decision I blame mostly on my best friend, Maggie. She is the reason I’m sitting on a plane, watching people herd down the aisle, pushing and shoving each other as they try to remove their carry-on bags from the overhead compartment.
I’m in no hurry to join the throng. I have no place to be or anyone I need to see. There’s no one waiting for me on the other side of security.
My breath hitches and tears prick at my eyes. I push them back. I will not cry. He’s taken enough of my tears already.
Finally, the crowd pushes to the front and I’m left alone to walk off the plane in silence. All by myself. It’s the new metaphor for my life. That Celine Dion song starts to play on repeat in my head and I push it back. Oh, no, no, no. He will not make me sing Celine Dion songs. THAT’s where I draw the line.
Taking a calming breath, I close my eyes. I can do this. I’ll be at my vacation rental property soon enough. Then I can let loose all the emotions I have kept inside for the last thirty-four hours and—I check my watch—forty-two minutes since my wedding ceremony was canceled.
“Thanks for flying with us. Have a great time in Orlando, Miss.” The flight attendant gives me a practiced, perky smile and my lips quiver slightly. Does she have to emphasize ‘Miss’? It’s like she knows I’m supposed to be Mrs. now. But I’m not.
I duck my head and plow past her, hardly acknowledging her greeting. “Yeah, thanks,” I mumble.
The warm, jet-fuel-filled air fills my nostrils as I step out of the plane, and the cookies I ate in flight swirl around in my stomach, lurching every so often toward my throat.
Closing my eyes, I clutch the handle of my carry-on tighter. I just need to collect my checked bags (yes, I checked them and yes, my father will be disappointed in me). Then I can get my rental car and be on my way. Easy peasy.
I follow the steady stream of pedestrians heading in the direction of the luggage pick up and hitch my backpack farther up, gripping the strap like it’s my lifeline. I glance down, immediately noticing the absence of the shimmering ring on my finger. I quickly look away.
Signs for the escalators leading to the baggage claim guide me and I pull my carry-on behind me, hurrying toward them. I step on, but only one wheel makes it onto the step above where I’m standing. The bag teeters as the steps grow taller. I try to finagle it so both wheels are on, but it’s caught on something. I give a hard flick of my wrist and the suitcase slips down, the wheels slicing down my ankle before settling firmly next to me.
“Ooh.” Tears form at the corners of my eyes as I let out a small cry of pain. But I push them firmly back. If I let the floodgates open now, I may never get out of the airport. It’ll be like that movie with Tom Hanks. I never saw it, but it’s got to be the same, right?
“May I help you with that, Miss?” A deep, rich voice asks behind me.
There’s that ‘Miss’ word again.
I place a dazzling smile on my face and turn around, expecting to see a handsome man close to my own age with a ring noticeably absent. After all, isn’t that what happens in any good romance? And let me tell you, I’m in need of a good romance right now.
I smile bigger, hoping my rebound Prince Charming will ignore my airplane seat hair and smudged eyeliner, seeing me instead as the beautiful, if slightly broken, woman that he has been waiting for. Because all rebound Prince Charmings (RPCs for short) are looking for someone slightly damaged. It’s what makes them look good, right?
I look up into the face of a man almost three times my age. He has salt and pepper hair and a white goatee. I frown slightly. He is not my RPC. Don’t get me wrong. He is handsome in the way Sean Connery was in his later years. But I’m not interested in dating my grandpa. Not even as a rebound. Uh, ick.
“Do you need some help?” He asks again. “You look like maybe you hurt yourself when you got on the escalator.”
I offer a twitchy smile and shake my head. Why is this man’s kindness nearly my undoing? “I’m totally good. But thanks for the offer.” I turn back because I’m coming to the bottom of the escalator and I don’t want to end up sprawled on the floor. I glance back as I step off flawlessly. (Yes, I’m going to brag about that, because I need a victory. Even if it’s a very small one). I yank my carry-on wheels over the edge of the escalator as the stairs disappear into the floor “I’ll just grab a trolly and I’ll be good to go. Thanks.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell the grandpa my whole airport plan, but I do. Although, I didn’t mention my rental car plans, so I suppose we do still have some mystery in our relationship.
I roll my eyes. How depressing is it that I am willing to call this a relationship?
I stare out at the baggage area. Holy crap! And I thought it was crowded by the gates. The baggage carousels are two deep with people. What were all these people thinking when they decided to fly to Orlando on Christmas Adam? Do they not have anything better to do over the holidays? Yes, I am hearing the hypocrisy. But in my defense, I didn’t choose to book my honeymoon on the 23rd of December. That was Nathan’s idea. I won’t have to take as much time off work, Babe.
Seriously, that should have been a big red flashing warning sign that he wanted to plan our wedding around the time his office would be closed for the holidays. I mean, isn’t a wedding more important? And who wants an anniversary this close to Christmas?
I bite my cheek. Well, I guess that’s something I don’t need to worry about anymore.
I let out a breath when I see the carousel with my flight number displayed above it. I’m almost out of here. I’ll grab a trolly and be on my way. Except when I look around, all the trolly stations are empty. Great.
I drop my hands to my side—my carry-on suitcase clatters to the ground at my feet—and look at the ceiling. Keep it together, Shay. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s a stupid trolly. But it’s like the Universe is reminding me that I shouldn’t have come on this trip. I subconsciously touch my forehead, just to make sure I don’t have bangs. I release a sigh.
Okay, this was a bad idea. I get the point already. But I’m here. Can’t the Universe give me Orlando? Even just for a day? Is that asking too much?
Apparently.
