Page 41 of At First Smile
“Earbuds come in pairs, one right, one left. We could listen to your audiobook together.” Our gazes weave.
“Champagne for the lovely couple.” The flight attendant appears with our drinks.
Rowan takes both glasses, and the flight attendant moves away.
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about this; I just don’t want to cry. I know baggage claim isn’t goodbye, but we only have a few more hours together. I don’t want to spend it on sad things.” I take my glass from him.
“Then let’s listen to your thousand-year-old vampire fall in love with the gawky librarian.” He clinks his glass against mine.
“She’s a museum docent.” I sip my drink andtskat him. “And don’t drink all that. That’s my second glass of liquid courage.”
He drank it but ordered me a second one after takeoff, so I forgave him quickly.
Heads pressed together and gazes linked, we lose ourselves in my audiobook and in each other. The periodic bumps and jolts of the flight are unnoticeable from the confines of our little bubble. His grin is wide at the cheesy bits. My hands rest on his denim-clad thigh during the tense scenes. His fingers trace my mouth at the parts that make me smile. Our breathing grows ragged at the sexier scenes.
Headiness setsin as we deplane. The three-and-a-half-hour flight reminiscent of a languid game of foreplay. My entire body is humming with need for this man.
Hands clasped, we walk through LAX. If JoJo hadn’t already driven from Seal Beach, I’d probably run away with Rowan. A tipsiness washes over me. It’s not the two glasses of bubbly; it’s him.
We weave through the crush of LAX passengers. No matter the date or time, it’s always disordered here, like swimming upstream against an entire school of misdirected salmon. It’s six p.m. on a Saturday and the airport buzzes with life.
Rowan pulls me close and tucks me into his side, shielding me from passersby, some who stare while others’ focus remains on their phones. I let myself melt into him.
We finally make it to baggage claim. My right eyebrow arches at the increased number of people gawking. I have enough vision to see people pointing and staring, reactions that I often get, but this is unusual. It’s brazen. It’s rude. Some people even lift their phones and snap pictures.
“What is happening?” My lips purse.
“I’m sorry.” Rowan’s tone is gruff and a little breathy as if the words sprinted out of him. His hold around me tightens. “Where’s JoJo meeting you?”
“At the carousel.” I twist and take in the scene.
A barrage of people shout Rowan’s name, bright lights flash, and the loud snapping of cameras assaults me.
My eyes squint and I grimace just a bit. “Rowan, what’s happening?”
“I’m sorry, Pen… so fucking sorry.” He lets out a heavy breath.
“What are you sorry about?” My brow puckers.
“Rowdy Rowan, who’s the girl?” someone shouts.
“Iverson, any comment about Landon Phillips being named NHL Man of the Year?” A gravelly masculine voice yells.
“Or the rumors that Landon is pressing charges against you?” Someone else chuckles.
“Fuck.” Rowan’s muttered word oozes with pain.
“Rowan, what are they talking about?” My gaze bounces around the space.
“Remember I told you about the person I punched—” he starts.
But someone cuts in, “Iverson, any truth to the rumor that Madeline Jacobson wants to trade you?”
“Pen!” JoJo calls, running towards us.
“Is that JoJo?” He squeezes my hand tight.
“Yes.” Even over this chaotic cacophony of sounds I recognize my best friend’s distinct smoky voice.
