Page 12 of The First Kind of Love
When my “captor” releases me, I vacuum up lungfuls of air, checking to make sure all my body parts are still intact. Once I’m certain that my bones haven’t cracked in three different places, I make the mistake of glancing up. Because there, before me, stands the tallest and biggest man I have ever seen, staring down at me like I’m a naïve little field mouse who just scurried into the lion’s den. He’s…it would take at least two and a half of me to reach his height. He eclipses everyone in the airport, and it doesn’t help that he’s built like a bear. He’s muscular in a bulky way, with a barrel chest and a softness to his midsection that flaunts a love for home-cooked meals.
“You must be Shiloh,” he bellows from above me, the epitome of intimidation, with enviably straight teeth and a face that could send all the menopausal moms in this airport into cardiac arrest.
I nod silently.
“I’m Kit. Fulton and I go way back. I’m kind of his sex guru,” he confesses in a whisper, waggling his eyebrows.
“You know this guy?” I ask Fulton, picking up my suitcase.
Fulton mirrors my line of sight, gives Kit an unamused once-over, then shrugs. “Never seen that man before in my entire life.”
“He’s lying! You know what? You just lost your place in the running to be Eda’s godfather.”
A blond man of ridiculous height—or maybe I just think that of everyone since I’m the size of a large FedEx box—gripes from the group that’s been standing with Fulton this entire time. “I thoughtIwas going to be her godfather.”
Kit pats the blond on the shoulder sympathetically. “You’re still our number one choice, but some of the guys bring good qualities to the table.”
A woman with long, wavy, brunette hair joins the conversation, and the cutest baby dangles from a Baby Bjorn strapped to her chest. I’m a sucker for babies. They’re so adorable. And this one’s wearing a pink onesie, further complemented by two matching bows in her wisps of hair.
“We haven’t decided yet,” she clarifies, glaring daggers at her partner, whom I’m assuming is the giant responsible for creating the mini giant straining against that flimsy-looking baby prison.
The two men start arguing rather animatedly in line, and the brunette relinquishes a sigh, a crescent smile embellishing her pink lips. “Sorry about them. I’m Faye. It’s lovely to meetyou,” she greets, opting for an awkward lean and handshake while simultaneously bouncing her fussy baby.
I shake her hand, and the unease that’s been poisoning my bloodstream seems to recede when an undercurrent of warmth and contentment replaces it instead. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
I’m about to say something else when I’m interrupted by a volcanic eruption of cries from the baby glued to her chest. Fat tears sluice down her rosy, cherubic cheeks while her chubby arms and legs swing about haphazardly.
Faye’s practically on the brink of tears herself. “I’m sorry. This is Eda’s first time flying. She’s not used to the environment yet.”
“It’s okay!” I rush out. “Airports are overstimulating even if you aren’t a baby. I can only imagine what’s going on in that tiny head of hers.”
Kit’s locked in within point two seconds, and he crouches down to tickle baby Eda’s feet, cooing beneath his breath and pulling all sorts of overexaggerated faces to try and calm her down. It’s polarizing, to be honest. I was facing down a scary, tattooed wall of muscle a minute ago, and now I’m watching the same man at the mercy of his little girl, fretting in a high-pitched voice.
I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for me to offer them any help considering I’m a complete stranger, but I can already pinpoint the genesis of scandalized gasps rippling through the small crowd in our section, so I’d be doing a disservice if I didn’t step in, right? Everyone already knows the silent, universal consensus that babies don’t belong on airplanes.
Thinking quickly, I make a beeline toward one of the water fountains nearby and wet my hand underneath the spout. When I jog back to the group, Faye and I share an implicit look before I hesitantly reach my damp hand out to touch Eda’s cheek. Eda squirms like a menace, nearly bursting my eardrum as she wails at a frequency you’d think only dogs could hear,but thesecondmy hand makes contact with her cheek, it’s like a switch flips. The crying and kicking stop, and even the angry canyon between her faint eyebrows smooths into a plateau.
Kit and Faye regard me with expressions of both shock and relief, and I can practically feel their combined worry taper off into a state of impotency.
Faye’s voice pitches low. “How did you?—”
“It’s a trick my mom used on me when I was a baby and wouldn’t stop crying,” I tell her nonchalantly, wiping my hand on the leg of my sweatpants.
Kit looks like he’s about to fall to his knees and praise the heavens above. “Fulton, youhaveto keep this girl,” he says, throwing figurative lighter fluid on the heat already blistering beneath my cheeks.
When I casually glance back at Fulton, the tips of his ears have gone stark red.
Before Kit can make another…suggestive…comment, Fulton cuts him off with an inopportune squawking noise. I’m not sure if he actually means to touch me, but he does so instinctively, turning me toward his remaining friends. Aside from that stupid handshake I forced him into, we’ve never touched each other before this.
And fuck, does it feel…right. Invigorating. Exhilarating. A ground-shattering explosion from a long-dormant volcano, a technicolor burst of energy set to paint the sky in brushstrokes of fire. It’s hard to put the sensation into words. It’s beautifully dangerous—the kind of danger that showers you with adrenaline and fear in the same breath, that poses the very real risk of taking your life at any wrong move, yet still entices you to chase after the deadly thrill of it.
“Shiloh, this is, uh, the rest of the guys and their partners.”
“Hi, I’m Aeris!” one of the girls squeals, bulldozing into me to give me the second hug of the day. She’s a lot smaller than Kit, but I think she has him beat for the tightest hug in theworld. “We met at Deja Brew, but I doubt you remember me. You brought me and my friend some coffee cake.”
I knew she looked familiar. I remember: I brought them some of our famous post-breakup coffee cake, which I assumed was the reason behind her poor friend crying her eyes out. Men are the unknowing culprits behind most of our coffee cake sales.
“Of course I remember you,” I chuckle into her shoulder, which, by the way, smells like lavender heaven. “You and your friend were the highlight of my shift that day.”
