1
Flirt
“Thedoorsareclosed.I’m sorry, sir.”
“No. No no no.” Ryder Mallory’s pulse pounded wildly as adrenaline from the sprint to the gate caught up to him, the force of it flooding his ears and flushing his cheeks. “My sister’s wedding is this afternoon.”
In Foothills. Even making his flight was set to give his mother a heart attack.
Now? Fucked, entirely.
With a robotic pity-smile, the attendant said, “There’s nothing I can do. The doors are closed. Federal regulations prohibit—”
“I know,” he said, gritting his jaw down tight and forcing a smile before he pissed off his lifeline. “This is completely my fault. My meeting ran late.” A wing-shaped nametag reflected against her dark uniform. “Annalisa, do you know if there are any other flights to Seattle?”
“Let me see what I can do.” With a smidge of sympathy, her closed-lipped smile tight, she trekked in her tan pumps to the counter.
He adjusted his garment bag and backpack and followed to meet her at the other side. Flashing his most charming smile, pearly whites on pleasant display, he said, “Thank you. I really, really appreciate your help.”
Honey brown eyes lifted to meet his, and she almost, almost looked like she actually wanted to help. Progress. “With spring break, things are pretty booked, but let me see…” Each keystroke clacked as her long burgundy fingernails sprinted in a practiced search. Finally, her brow dipped low as she landed on something. “The next flight with an open seat to Seattle won’t get you there until seven this evening.”
Heart sinking lower with each passing second, he imagined calling his brother to pass along how badly he’d fucked up this time. Grady ought to be sainted, playing messenger to keep the stress off their mother.
Lips pursed together, she scanned deeper into her system with swift keystrokes. “Oh. Wait. Okay. There’s a flight to Portland leaving in five minutes. If you run, you can make it.”
“Perfect,” he said, panic and relief broadening his grin. “Thank you.”
“Gate F11. Good luck.” She passed a quick paper copy of his new boarding pass.
Ryder slapped his hand down on it and took off.
Everyone and their damn dog were out for spring break and whatever else, flooding the airport and blocking his way. He juked around a stack of luggage. Jumped over a spilled frappuccino—hopefully, it might have been vomit.
How many fucking times had he been that guy, the one sprinting full out toward the gate? Enough, anyway, and he didn’t look half as cool as Jerry Maguire. Slowed by rolling suitcases and heavy bags enough times, he had packed a light backpack and only wore shoes with good traction.
“Final boarding for flight 751 to Portland PDX. Final boarding.” The announcement was garbled, echoing in the standard, barely understandable boarding call designed for absolutely no one except those already in the immediate boarding area.
“I’m here,” he hollered as he sprinted around the corner. He skidded to a halt on the tight weave commercial rug and slid his boarding pass onto the scanner. His lungs filled with air, his brain muddled and dizzy as he tried to calm his pulse.
“You must be Mr. Mallory. Annalisa called ahead and let me know you could use a break.”
“Thank you, Miranda,” he said with a rush of an exhale, falling into his winningest smile and ensuring to call her by name from the nametag. “You are a lifesaver.”
She smiled warmly back and nodded toward the door. “Good luck. I hope traffic’s okay for you.”
“Thanks.” He tipped a final, grateful nod, then dashed through the door and down the jetway.
34B.
Fuck. Cheeks puffed out, he slowed as he reached the plane and stepped on board.
The first-class passengers already had drinks and were happily relaxing for the flight. Where he was supposed to be. With how often he traveled for work, he had enough miles saved up to fly first class every day for the rest of his life. For all those vacations he hadn’t had time to take yet.
Not today, apparently. He tucked in his garment bag so he didn’t take anybody out along the walk down the aisle, and adjusted his backpack for the long, long, long trek to the back of the plane. At least everyone had already boarded, so the aisle was clear, aside from people grabbing last minute electronics and sweatshirts from the overhead compartment.
Thirty-two, thirty-three, and… fucking hell. Stoned and dozing, the aisle passenger took up half the aisle and half of the middle seat. The window seat had a remarkably efficient knitter clicking her needles rapidly, the ball of yarn in a bag on the middle seat spinning as it unraveled. “Um, excuse me,” he said, nodding to his seat.
Neither looked pleased to realize they didn’t have the room they’d hoped for.
