Page 2 of Wild Card
“It is what it is?” His eyes bug out, his pie face turning an even deeper shade of red.
I can’t believe I just used that woman’s line on this guy, but I’m getting a kick out of confronting him, so I borrow another sentiment from Miss Happy.
“Yeah, it’s like when life gives you lemons, don’t be an asshole to the service staff. Or something like that.”
The man stares at me, and I stare back. His gaze sweeps over my favorite plaid flannel shirt, then down my black jeans and leather boots. I’m bigger than him, and while it’s been a few years since I threw a punch, I’m not above it. I may be pushing forty, but I’m in great shape, and it might feel good to release this tension.
His beady eyes skitter across the hushed crowd, as though assessing how embarrassed he should be (the answer is very embarrassed). He must realize I’m not an easy target because he turns back to the woman behind the desk—who looks suitably shocked—and swipes his paper ticket off the counter before storming away as fast as his furious, little legs will carry him.
Watching him waddle away in a huff makes my lips twitch.
And here I thought nothing could make me smile tonight.
Though her shythank youpulls on my heartstrings a bit, my polite exchange with the agent behind the desk doesn’t make anything any better—the closest hotels have no availability because of other cancellations and our flight has been rescheduled for a 6 a.m. departure.
It’s currently 11:08, which means by the time I get through the hellish traffic in and around the city to a place with a vacancy, I might as well turn right back around since I’ll need to clear security all over again. The only reasonable solution is to sleep on a bench in the terminal.
Everything about tonight sucks, but I swallow my frustration like a real man and thank her for her help before leaving to find a place to hunker down for the night.
Tired legs carry me through the airport as I scan for a spot where I can go horizontal for a few hours. Years of battling active forest fires have left me with the uncanny ability to doze off almost anywhere and function with little sleep. Wildfires don’t care about your bedtime and often like to do their worst after dark, so I’m no stranger to catching some shut-eye in uncomfortable places.
Except, I’m not the only person who seems to have resigned themselves to sleeping at the airport tonight.
I stand in place, hands on my hips, searching for even a free corner, but the place is like a fucking hostel, people and bags splayed all over the place.
The only place my eyes land on that has a free spot is the bar. One lone table for two at the edge of the seating area, tucked right next to the walkway that leads to the bathroom. It’s not glamorous, but it’s something. And a drink sounds pretty damn good right now.
I don’t bother asking if it’s available. I just march past the deserted hostess stand and stake my claim. And just in the nick of time, based on the stream of people who walk up and peer around the restaurant like they can will an open spot into existence. But their wishful thinking is futile. The bar top is packed, shoulder to shoulder, with a mess of bags cluttering the floor. Frantic waitstaff hustle between the tables, struggling to keep up with the unexpected Monday night rush.
I feel bad for them too, so I pull my phone out and scroll as I wait—it’s not like I have anywhere to be. The news about the snowstorm and all the chaos it’s causing across the Pacific Northwest makes me shake my head. In almost any other Canadian city, this wouldn’t be an issue. But here? Not enough plows. Not enough deicing machines.
As I internally scold a major airport, a voice catches my attention.
The sound of it pulls me right out of my downward spiral.
I glance up, and there she is. The lemonade girl.
Woman.
Because there is nothing girlish about her. She carries herself with a confident ease, wearing soft, feminine curves like she invented them. And that voice? It’s the furthest thing from girlish. That voice is all grown-up. It’s not giddy or overly bright. It’s all honey and spice, smooth with a hint of heat—borderline sensual without even trying.
“Not a single spot in the entire place?”
There’s a kid at the front now who looks barely old enough to be working here. He stares back at her, and I can tell he’s not immune to the heart-shaped face with matching heart-shaped lips. He looks ready to build her a chair himself, just to give her somewhere to sit.
As her gaze searches the restaurant, he watches her raptly. And I follow suit.
No wonder he’s practically panting. He’s just encountered a modern-day Marilyn Monroe—but she’s even more buxom. Loose, platinum waves fall next to full cheeks and a button nose. But it’s her big blue doe eyes that are a fucking kick to the gut. They’re so vibrant, I swear they trend toward a lavender tone.
I shift in my seat and focus back on my phone. I’m too damn old to be gawking at a pretty girl in the airport. Scrolling the news is far more appropriate.
“S-sorry. I wish I could?—”
I hear him trip over his words and chuckle.
Poor fucking kid.
“Oh, don’t be sorry. I see a spot over there, actually. I appreciate your help.”
