Page 86 of The Publicity Stunt
She doesn’t. “You could’ve roomed together in a remotely shady inn that somehow has Only One Bed.”
“Hol, stop. It was a moment of weakness.” I stuff my phone back into my purse. “Also, we’re staying at the Ritz. I’m fairly certain they pride themselves on having beds for all their guests.”
Her brow pinches. “A moment of weakness?”
I plonk down next to her and drop my face into my forearm.
“A kiss is a moment of weakness,” she goes on. “Having sex with an ex-boyfriend in a public space is at least ten moments.”
I dry heave at her words and sit up. Public space. Jeez. “Do you think I’m overthinking it?”
“Isn’t that … your hobby?”
“I’m serious, Holly. The whole aftermath. God, I’m so embarrassed. I feel like one of those leading ladies in a rom-com who goes on the worst date of her life right before meeting Prince Charming.”
Holly whips her short blond waves behind her shoulder. “Okay, first of all”—she raises a finger—“that would makemethe side character, which is just absurd. Second of all, I would never star in a rom-com. Unless the subgenre is horror.”
“Thanks, Hol.” I pat her thigh. “That helped a lot.”
“And last of all—”
“Oh, yay. There’s more.”
She grabs my arms and turns me to face her. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m sure the whole thing freaked him out as much as it did you.”
“But it didn’t freak me out,” I counter. “I was having a great time.”
“Well, in that case, he’s definitely freaked out by hownotfreaked out you were. Trust me.”
Surprisingly, that does make some sense. The turmoil of nerves in my chest mellows and I stand, kissing the side of my sister’s head. “Holly Moore taking Hayden Parker’s side? The world must be coming to an end.”
She rolls her eyes.
“All right, I need to leave before I miss my flight.” I drag my suitcase out, make my way toward the elevators (yes, our rare Manhattan building has one), and press the down-arrow button. “Try to sustain yourself on something other than coffee, please.”
I look back at Hol and she blows me a kiss.
“Have fun with your extra beds.”
* * *
New York’s JFK airport isn’t the biggest in the world. Nor is it the busiest. But what it is, is the gateway to hell. Always crowded and smelling of lox and stale bagels.
Granted, it isn’t all that crowded at five p.m. on a Friday—which ideally would’ve been a plus point, but there was one major flaw holding it back.
A disastrous flaw.
The Starbucks in Terminal C was shut.
Hence, I’m stranded at Gate 25, waiting for Kripke and Tony without any caffeine.
The cherry on top? I texted Kripke on my way here demanding an ETA, only to get left on “read.” If that doesn’t call for a Venti Caramel Macchiato with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles, then I don’t know what does.
I unlock my phone to open Instagram for the tenth time in the past fifteen minutes and resume scrolling through the endless puppy videos on my feed. Somewhere around the fifth one, right when the five-month-old golden retriever is about to trip over into the pool, my eyes drift up and I spot someone very familiar walking toward me. I slam my phone down on the seat next to me. “What are you doing here?“
“I could ask you the same thing,” Parker says and plops down on the seat to my right, a black travel-sized bag hanging from his shoulder.
Is this really happening? Again? How do we keep running into each other like this? I’ve asked him before and I’ll ask him again. “Are you following me?”
