Page 20 of The Kiss Keeper
“All right. You can go through in yourdress,” the man said, waving her into the scanner’s chamber.
Jake set their bags on the conveyer belt and followed her. Thank God she didn’t have an Uzi or a ten-gallon jug of bleach in her heavy as fuck carry-on. They picked up their items, and he was ready to part ways when her hand was back on his forearm.
“Let me buy you a drink or a snack or something to thank you for your help. You’ve been the brightest part to literally one of the worst days of my life,” she said with that damn sweet smile.
He stared at her. He hadn’t really looked at her yet.
“Did you cut yourself? You’ve got a red mark on your cheek,” he asked.
Her hand flew to her face. “It’s probably a little paint. I am…I mean, I was an elementary school art teacher.”
She’d brushed at her cheek but missed the spot. Without thinking, he stroked his thumb over the pale streak on the apple of her cheek, and the red bit of paint flaked away, and time stopped.
They stood there, staring at each other while travelers veered around them as if a protective bubble surrounded them, and again, he felt the urge to kiss her. She bit down on her lip, and her inadvertent sultry move diverted his blood supply south to his cock. He took a lock of her hair and twisted it around his finger, mesmerized by this stranger when a baby wailed nearby, and the bubble popped. He released the lock of chestnut hair as his blood supply rerouted back to his brain. He was not one of those idiots who could get so wrapped up in a woman that he’d block traffic in the middle of an airport. He dropped his hand from her cheek to rest on her shoulder, and his thumb brushed her collarbone.
“Oh!” she gasped, staring at him as if she recognized him when the last call for his flight to Portland rang out over the intercom.
He glanced past her. “That’s my flight.”
Her eyes went wide. “That’s my flight!”
He shook his head. Fucking hell!
“Come on! We have to run. Give me your bag.”
She reared back. “Are you going to try to steal it?”
He threw up his hands. “I just got you past TSA. We’re in a completely secure building. Where the hell do you think I’m going to go with your bag?”
“If you tried to steal my bag, it’s not like I could chase you. I can’t run in heels. I’m not really a stiletto girl,” she added, staring down at her sexy as hell and as impractical as fuck footwear.
“Christ,” he bit out, dreading what he had to do.
Before she could stop him, he scooped her up into his arms and slung her over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“Getting us on that plane,” he said, grabbing their bags and setting off toward the gate.
“Like this? Carrying me, like a sack of potatoes?”
“I can’t be the first Jake that’s done this to you. You’ve dated seven of us.”
She pounded her fists against his back. “I’ve dated six Jakes. And I wouldn’t call what we’re doing as dating. This is more like manhandling.”
The gate came into sight, and he switched from a jog to a full sprint. “Congratulations, you can now say you’ve been manhandled by a Jake. Just add it to your Jake list.”
But she’d stopped wiggling.
“Are you okay, Heels?” he asked.
“Are we going to make it? My family already thinks I’m a flighty idiot who can’t keep a job. Oh, Jake, I can’t miss this plane!” she cried, her voice bobbling as she jostled with each of his strides.
He couldn’t miss the plane either. He had five million reasons to get to Maine.
“Hold the door, your last two passengers are here,” he called to the gate agent.
The woman glanced down at an iPad. “Passengers Teller and Callahan?”
