Page 11 of The First Kind of Love
ANXIETY AIRLINES
SHILOH
I’m so late. I thought I had managed my time well, but apparently looking for the freakishly expensive pair of sunglasses I bought on a whim when the business was booming wasverytime-consuming. And I can’t step foot in Cabo without the necessary eye protection.
I run through the airport as fast as my short legs can manage, my oversized backpack bouncing against my spine with every stride, and my small carry-on nearly tripping other pedestrians with my frenetic movements.
I’m going to miss my flight. Fuck. Oh, fuck. I should’ve abandoned the sunglasses! I could have just bought new onesinCabo!
Not that I have time to stare at the relatively calm and relaxed bystanders who got to the airport two hours ahead of their flight time, but I can definitelyfeelall their sympathetic gazes flashing blurrily in my periphery. As anxiety’s ever-widening maw ensnares me, the ticking time bomb of my heart enters red territory with ten seconds to go before I either break down and cry, or sneak onto that goddamn plane with nothing but the clothes on my back and my nonexistent dignity.
“Excuse me! Sorry! Coming through!” I shout as I maneuverpast human-sized obstacles, finally beginning to feel my thighs protest from the exertion.
Gate B22. Almost there. I just passed B19. I can do this. I can make it. I have to…for Fulton.
Originally, I had my reservations about this whole far-fetched trip, but deep down, I think I always knew what I was going to do. My heart usually isn’t this combative. My heart usually understands that my head takes the reins when it comes to work, my social life, things in general, etcetera. But it was adamant that I board that plane and grow closer to the one man I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
I really need to exercise more.
Finally, as Gate B22 comes into view, I locate a conveyor belt of people beginning to board, and I’d wave my arms and screech like a lunatic if I weren’t lugging twenty-six pounds of junk behind me. Nevertheless, with my legs screaming in agonizing pain, I practically catapult myself over to the boarding area, right in front of?—
“Shiloh?”
Fulton’s towering frame stands before me, his voice softened with the last dregs of exhaustion as it drags over me in a way-too-sexy rasp. He’s not dressed in anything fancy, but that doesn’t mean the grey sweatpants and the Reapers hoodie isn’t doing anything for me. Because it is. Oh, itsois. He looks so…comfy.Like a pretty good headrest for a two-hour flight.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead in a very unladylike manner. “Hi! Hi. I’m so sorry I’m late. There was this whole fiasco back at my house, but, uh, I’m here now! Ready to go to Cabo!”
Fulton looks me up and down with heavy-lidded eyes, his lips rucking up into a tired smile. “I’m glad you came. I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”
Adoration swoops in my belly, fighting against an influx ofbutterflies all determined to turn my cheeks sanguine. “I wouldn’t miss you for the world,” I assure him.
He arches an eyebrow. “Me?”
“It! I wouldn’t missitfor the world,” I quickly correct, an infestation of nerves spidering throughout my body.
I mentally kick myself for how uncool I sound. Not to mention that I’m still trying to catch my breath after I sprinted across half of the airport. My hair’s a rat’s nest of tangles, I have purple bags under my eyes from a restless night of sleep, and my sweatshirt has so many holes in it that I hardly think it can beconsidereda sweatshirt anymore.
Fulton, on the other hand, looks as handsome as he always does. His hair is dangerously fluffy with the right number of loose strands falling into his eyes, and even though his attire hangs baggy on his frame, I know there’s an acreage of defined muscle underneath. If there’s anything to envy about men (which isn’t a lot), it’s their ability to get ready in less than ten minutes and look disturbingly put-together.
Since I come up to Fulton’s bicep, it’s easy for me to track the bob of his throat, and he rolls his shoulders back, the set of his jaw practically knifelike in its sharpness. He looks…nervous? He also looks like he’s about to say something, and whatever it is, it’s difficult for him to articulate.
“You look really pretty,” he blurts out, his voice splintering with a not-so-discreet crack.
I blink a few times, looking up at him with a hefty dose of confusion. “What?”
Fulton doesn’t hesitate, which is actually quite uncharacteristic of him. When his eyes deadlock with mine, my heart starts chugging erratically in my chest, and all the saliva in my mouth suddenly evaporates.
“You look really pretty, Shiloh,” he repeats, his tone darkening a shade just above irresistible, and it makes the lesssensible parts of me fantasize about some after-dark activities that have no business loitering in my sexed-up head.
I don’t know what to say. One, I wasn’t expecting anyone to compliment this disaster of an ensemble, let alone Fulton. Two, I’m so lovestruck by him that there’s absolutely no working brain cell on-site to remedy this self-inflicted mortification.
Much to my dismay, the ache in my jaw tells me that my mouth was, in fact, hanging open this entire time, and I do my best to disperse the nervous flutters with a scratchy throat clear. “Thank you. You look very ha?—”
Considering I’m running on four hours of sleep and have since been exposed to Fulton’s hot-guy fumes, my spatial awareness has taken a long hike south, which means I don’t anticipate the gargantuan body that comes speeding into my side. One second my feet are firmly planted on the ground, and the next, I’m flailing in the air and being crushed by arms the size of pythons. My carry-on clatters to the ground, and my backpack whams against my spine with enough force to make me wince. I squeal like I’m being kidnapped in broad daylight, but it’s drowned out beneath the ambient cooing coming from all around me.
“Fulton, you didn’t tell us how beautiful she was!”
“Dude, you weren’t kidding when you said she was out of your league.”
