There’s a rhythmic ticking in his jaw that tells me his patience is about to expire. It takes all the willpower I possess not to drop my hand from the bag and simply give it to him, such is the effect of those intense eyes scorching into mine.
Honestly, I’ve never had a grown man glare at me before, besides the time I crashed Clint’s sit-atop lawnmower into the pond after one too many post-graduation wine coolers and incurred his father’s — much deserved — wrath. Call me crazy, but I just don’t get what most girls find so attractive about total assholes. I’m not submissive. I don’t have authority issues or daddy issues or whatever other issues usually make the fairer sex swoon over that gruff smolder adopted by blockbuster action heroes and angsty teen dystopian bad boys.
Or… I didn’t.
Until this moment.
Because, while I’m perfectly aware I should not find myself thinking that this glaring stranger is the most magnetically attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on…
Damn.
I repeat: damnnnnnn.
Swallowing harshly, I banish the thoughts to the back of my mind. Drooling over him won’t help me get my bag back.
“Sorry,” I prattle breathily after a pause that’s dragged on far too long. “I think there’s been a mistake—”
“I should say so.” He cuts me off, a fissure of displeasure furrowing his forehead until the small white scar bisecting his left eyebrow stands out starkly against his tanned skin. His voice is sandpaper — full of grit. The stranger’s dark green eyes flicker to my toes and back in the space of a single, thudding heartbeat. I get the sense that despite the brevity of his assessment, he could describe every article of clothing on my body right down to the unfortunate coffee stain sitting just above my boob from a bout of turbulence on my last flight. Whatever he sees, it’s clearly not worth a second look. His eyes return to mine without lingering longer than an instant. “What do you think you’re doing?”
My spine straightens at the anger in his tone. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flash with impatience. “I’m going to need you to let go of my bag.”
“Your bag?”
He nods sharply, patience dwindling. “Listen, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so unless you’re going to pull out a pamphlet and sell me some Girl Scout cookies…”
“Did you just call me a Girl Scout?” I snap, feeling my temper rise to meet his.
His eyes never shift from my face. “If the sash fits.”
What a dick!
“I think you’re having a senior moment, grandpa, because this is mine,” I hiss, tugging back. “This isn’t funny.”
“I agree, it’s not funny at all.” His jaw ticks. “Let go.”
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you can just back the hell off.”
I yank again, to punctuate my words.
The bastard yanks right back.
I gasp at his audacity.
He glares at my pig-headedness.
The bag swings comically between us.
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap.
“My problem?”
“Yes!” I gnash my teeth. “You clearly have a problem, because normal people don’t insult strangers they’ve never met in airports for no reason at all!”
“I’d say I have a pretty valid reason.”
“I’d say you’re an asshole!”
His lips twist. “Aren’t you a little young for that kind of language? Careful or mommy’s going to come wash out your mouth with soap.”
“You unbelievably arrogant asshole,” I say again, with added emphasis.
His brows arch sardonically. That look says more than a thousand jeering words.
Little girl, little girl, little girl.
My tone is seething. “Just leave me alone!”
He snorts. “Leave you alone? You’re not the one being mugged!”
My arm is starting to ache from the effort of keeping the bag aloft between us, but I ignore it. I can hardly believe this is happening — that I’m engaged in a battle of wills over my belongings. I don’t know why he’s chosen me as the target of his theft. All I do know is… he will not win. This was my dad’s bag. One of the only things I have left of him. Damned if some asshole is taking it from me.
Our strange stalemate has begun to attract a crowd. In my peripheral, I spot a middle-aged woman eyeing us with concern, clearly considering an intervention. I keep my focus on the pissed-off stranger, hoping he can’t see the way my pulse is pounding in my jugular from four feet away. It takes all my resolve to keep from shrinking back when he takes a purposeful stride into my personal space.
Shit.
For a moment, I think he’s going to rip the bag right out of my grip — which, let’s face it, he definitely could, judging by the impressive bicep muscles I can see peeking from his sleeves. My heart pounds madly as he lifts his free hand. His eyes burn into mine, green clashing with green, stealing all the oxygen from my lungs. I’m paralyzed as his hand extends closer. The quivering voice of self-preservation inside my head is screaming, Run, you idiot, it’s just a bag!
I ignore it, with effort.
In a calculated show of intimidation, the stranger’s strong fingers clasp the luggage tag affixed to the zipper and flip it over with one deft movement. His lips twist in a self-congratulatory smirk that makes my stomach thud to my feet like a bowling ball. My reluctant eyes drop to scan the tag and I feel all the blood drain from my face. Because there, etched in neat, masculine lettering, is a name. And… it’s not mine.
B. UNDERWOOD
For a crazy instant, I allow myself to contemplate what that first initial stands for.
Blaine?
Blake?
Ben?
No. None of those sound right to me. I wish, in spite of his curt attitude and clear contempt for me, that I wasn’t too chickenshit to ask his name.
“I…” I gulp. “That’s…”
“My bag,” the gruff stranger finishes, his tone suggesting I’m a few screws short of a set. “As I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“I… I’m…” My mouth is too dry to speak.
His lips twitch in what looks like amusement. His tone gentles a bit as his eyes scan my burning cheeks, noting my deep embarrassment. “I’m going to need you to let go now.”
My hand drops from the strap like I’ve been scalded. I’m abruptly mortified. I’ve made a total, complete fool of myself in front of the hottest man I’ve ever seen in real life. I can’t meet his eyes, so I mumble something in the ballpark of I’msorrymymistakeIdidn’trealize before turning on my heel and bolting like a shameless coward.
I make it only a handful of steps before I realize that my bag — my real bag — is still going round and round the baggage claim. So much for my great escape. Clinging to the shreds of my dignity with shaky fingers, I slam to a stop and stalk, cheeks ablaze, back to the metal conveyer belt. Sure enough, another army green duffle is slowly chugging along the track.
I chastise myself for ever mixing it up with B. Underwood’s — now that I’m paying attention, the differences are clear as day. Years of sun have bleached my Dad’s canvas from true army green to a lighter olive shade, and then there’s the small black LIVE FREE OR DIE patch Mom sewed on the right side years ago, to cover a tear.