“Hold on for a second, Tori.” Grabbing my purse, carryon bag, and my cold coffee, I shuffle to a gate with fewer people. Once I find a secluded spot, I drop my stuff by my chair and put the phone to my ear. “You still there?”
“There’s no way you’re getting rid of me right now.” She’s still breathless, and when I glance at the top of my screen at the time, I see why. It’s 8:05 in Los Angeles, meaning that she’s getting ready for work. She’s got less than an hour to be inside of her cubicle. “Okay . . . are you with Lucas Wolfe?”
It’s blunt and completely to the point, and I can almost hear the words left unsaid: Are you back with Lucas after the way he treated you five months ago?
Bending at the waist, I place my forearms on my knees and glare down at the rounded toes of my yellow ballet flats. “We’re going to give it a try,” I say at last. Tori’s quiet and I can picture what she’s doing right now: she’s half-dressed and sitting on the edge of the microsuede loveseat in the apartment we once shared, nodding her head (which is probably still wet from her shower) slowly.
“You’re going to be late if you don’t get up right now,” I warn.
“I’m not mad if that’s what you’re thinking. And as much as I don’t understand it, I can’t blame you for wanting him. I’d fall all over myself if Micah wrote me a song like that. But I swear to God if you get hurt, I’m going to torch his house.”
I work my lips together. Tori’s taking this pretty well, considering the deep-rooted disdain she’s showed for Lucas for the last several months. Hell, she freaked out at her boyfriend, Micah, for playing Your Toxic Sequel’s music at a party we hosted.
“I love you, you know that right?” I ask.
She laughs and then mutters something about mascara and raccoon eyes. “I support everything you do, woman. I’d be a petty bitch if I got angry about you dating someone.”
“Then thanks for not being a petty bitch,” I say, causing Tori to snort.
The mood of the conversation suddenly more relaxed, the rest of our call goes smoothly. For the next forty-five minutes, I talk to Tori as she drives to work about everything but Lucas Wolfe. After we hang up, I take my belongings back to gate 19, and an hour later, I board my flight to Los Angeles.
Back to Lucas, the expected, and the completely unexpected.
When I arrive at LAX and turn on my phone, a message from my brother pops up on my screen. Seth promises to stop by the Nashville airport to check on my car and to send my shoes.
There’s also one text from Lucas.
11:48AM: Your driver will be there when you get off at one. Then you’re mine.
I can almost hear Lucas growling the last part of his message right into my ear, and the tiny hairs on my arms and the nape of my neck stand on end. Ignoring the flutters in my stomach that skim the line of pain and pleasure, I answer him, focusing on what’s important at the moment as I make my way toward the baggage claim.
12:15PM: I think you gave the driver the wrong time. I’m here already.
His response is immediate.
12:16PM: Shit, are you serious, Red? Sit tight.
“Nice move, Wolfe,” I mutter under my breath. Tapping my foot rapidly against the floor, I wait for my suitcase to come around on the carousel. Once I locate it, I lug everything to a row of chairs nearby. It’s too hot for me to wait outside for some driver to arrive.
No sooner than my butt makes contact with the hard seat do I hear snippets of a conversation between two women who are walking in the direction of the taxi exit.
“ . . . I have all of their CDs. I could spot him from a mile away. It was definitely him, and you—you are stifling me!”
What the hell?
I twist around in time to witness the shorter woman with the black, asymmetrical bob narrow her chocolate brown eyes at the tall, leggy blonde. “And just last night you just said they’re on tour. So which is it, Kate? He’s is on tour, or he’s bullshitting around this place?”
“Or maybe,” Kate hisses, “Lucas is catching a flight because of his tour.”
Lucas is already here?
I clamber to my feet, allowing the argument between Kate and her friend fade into the background as I scan as far as my eyes can see for Lucas. There are couples reuniting all around me, and what appears to be an entire busload of people holding up signs that say “Welcome Home, Gloria,” but no sign of him. I’m about to grab my stuff and go look, but then I see him. Heading directly toward me. His stride a little faster than it normally is, his soft grin entirely too confident, his hazel eyes cocky and yet full of need.
God, that man and those eyes.
He’s wearing destroyed jeans and an olive green T-shirt that show off the green flecks in his eyes. His muscular arms hang relaxed by his side, but when he comes close enough for me to breathe in the clean, airy scent of his cologne, I notice that he’s worrying something between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. I squint down at it as the toes of his Converse brush up against my ballet flats.
“Well fuck, Sienna. Looks like you’re more interested in my hands than my face.” But he opens his palm, holding it six inches from my face. My throat constricts when I realize what he’s holding.
It’s a guitar pick.
Holy hell.
“You’re grinding your teeth.” The volume of his voice is barely above a whisper and yet so powerful. “The things I want to do to you for that.”
Dragging my gaze up to meet his amused expression, I cross my arms over my breasts and rock back on the balls of my feet. “I almost feel you’re holding that just so I’ll do it.” He gives me a noncommittal shrug, and I run my tongue over my teeth. “I thought you said a driver was—”
He interrupts me mid-sentence by jerking me to him. I gasp, and no surprise, he smirks. “Did you really think I’d send a driver to get you? Did you really think I’d forget the exact moment you were due to arrive, Sienna?” He moves the tip of his guitar pick along my back, tracing the outline of the lacy bra through my shirt. “I’ll deal with any type of airport bullshit just to get to you first.”
“Suck up,” I say, glaring up at him. He slides the guitar pick across my shoulder blades, a look of sheer satisfaction taking over his face when my body curves against the contours of his. “But, I’m glad you did, I wanted to strangle you when you sent that text.”
He responds by dipping the pick dangerously low, tracing it along the deep-V of my white and yellow peplum blouse. “Did you just squeal?”
He would try to screw with my head, with my body, right in the middle of the freaking LAX. “If you’re going to kiss me, you should probably do it now before you draw a crowd,” I say.
“Oh, I’m not going to kiss you.” He backs away from me, and when he notices the look of disappointment, and surprise, on my face, he brushes his thumb over my slightly parted lips. “When I kiss you, I’m going to be the only thing on your mind. Not what’s running through the mind of everyone walking past us, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Smart ass.” Grinning, he stuffs the guitar pick into the back pocket of his jeans and examines my luggage. “You packed light.” He grabs the handles of my bag and carry-on in either of his large hands. “I expected there to be at least one more of these.” He jiggles the larger bag, and I laugh.
“I left a bag of shoes at Gram’s. Don’t worry, it’s carry-on size.” Though judging from what he just told me, he doesn’t really care how many bags I bring along for this ride. He gestures his head to the left of us, and I fall in step beside of him toward short-term parking. I resist the urge to brush hair away from his face. “My brother’s going to send them as soon as I know where we’ll be stopping for our first . . . off-night.”
Lucas gives me a sideways glance. “Off-night?”