Christmas at Gate 18 Page 2

  Which brings me to the third thing.

  Someone has joined me in my little secluded spot. I haven’t been brave enough to turn my head yet—partly because my neck still hurts, mostly because I’m a little afraid to see the face of the person whose left shoe is pressing up against my bag as if it’s a designated foot rest for the weary traveler.

  What if he’s psycho?

  What if he’s a girl?

  What if she tries to steal my stuff when I’m not looking?

  What if she’s a guy?

  What if he’s good looking?

  Weirdly focused on gender but unwilling to turn and find out who I’m dealing with, I focus on a shoe—a worn black Converse hightop—hoping the wearer will get the hint and move it off my suitcase. I’d really rather not push it off. I will if I have to. What kind of person rests their foot on someone else’s bag? When nothing happens, a little anger wells up, giving me the courage to sneak a peek.

  When my eyes make contact with the sight next to me, my pulse begins to hammer in my neck. Dark hair…blue eyes…a jawline that GQ cover model would envy. I would know, I’ve worked with most of them.

  I’m not sure what I expected to see, but this isn’t it.

  Chapter 2

  Colt

  Morning can’t come soon enough. My butt hurts from sitting on this sorry layer of matted quarter-inch blue polyester that some chump with bad taste picked out from the clearance section at the carpeting store, no doubt. My head hurts from the three beers I consumed on my last flight, a good plan in its conception considering I intended to get relaxed enough to sleep the entire fifteen-hour leg to Atlanta because I’m so freaking exhausted and haven’t slept in days. Clearly a horrible decision on both counts since I wound up rerouted here and am currently nowhere near Atlanta and have no hope of being there in the foreseeable future. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty and all that. If I could redo the last twelve hours I would be back at the beach in Aruba, lying on a towel with one girl on my right side and another on my left while both take turns applying sunscreen to my skin.

  Instead I’m stuck here. No sunscreen. No girls. No fun.

  Though, if I’m being honest, I’m sick of that life. I’ve been sick of it for months now. From practically the day I learned how to drive, I’ve been a partier. A playboy. A kid high on freedom and his dad’s unlimited bank account. Most kids have an allowance of twenty bucks a week. Mine was never less than a thousand.

  Who gives a sixteen-year-old kid access to that kind of money?

  It was fun for a decade or so, but then reality crashed in. In ten short years, I had grown into a clone of my father. A sidekick. A guy with a job, yet not one he earned. A guy with women, but not anyone special. It took looking into a darkened window pane, seeing a reflection of myself holding a scotch on the rocks at a Hollywood fundraiser to see what I’d become. I was sporting a Louis Vuitton three piece suit and a three hundred dollar haircut, and I hated everything about the image.

  Ten minutes later, I set my drink on the bar and walked out of the club, leaving my date there alone. I didn’t feel bad. I didn’t even know her name.

  Ten days later I was lying on the beaches of Bermuda with one girl on my right and another behind me. Hey, I left Hollywood. I didn’t say it entirely left me.

  That took another six months to happen.

  Sometimes life is lived by habit rather than choice because for some of us, life-altering choices are hard to make. Sometimes the best way to avoid facing tough decisions is to revert to old ways. Old ways are comfortable. Old ways are easy. Some old habits are tough to break.

  Turns out the cliché is painfully true.

  Like I decided on the plane last night while drinking my second Miller Lite, I’m breaking my worst habit now. Starting today, I’m done with women. Through with late-night hookups and meaningless conversations and dates that lead nowhere. Finished with one-night-stands and shallow connections and promised phone calls I know I won’t make.

  Done.

  Through.

  Starting now, I’m off the market and happy about it.

  Starting now, it’s time to grow up.

  I smile to myself as the chick lying down to my left stirs in place. I know she’s a chick because she smells like a chick, all flowery and heady and appetizing. After a moment her head comes up from her bag and she rolls her neck around, moaning in a way that momentarily makes me forget my resolve. After a second I gather it up again. Remind myself that I’m through with two-way verbal pleasantries only designed to get to the good part. I’m Colton Ross, and you’re…?

  Who cares. Your bedroom or mine. Either works for me.

  I get another whiff of her perfume and remind myself again. You’re done. I mentally say it a couple more times to make sure it sticks.

  Suddenly my neck grows warm as eyes bore into me from the left. She’s staring right at me. I don’t have to look to know she’s mad.

  “You want to move your foot off my backpack, or should I move it for you?” the girl says out of the blue, surprising me with her tough tone. And this is another reason why I’ve had enough with women. They’re all sass and bossiness and don’t-mess-with-me and frankly I’m through with being pushed around.

  “Someone is missing her Christmas cheer,” I say in the most patronizing voice I can muster. “I didn’t realize your bag was one of a kind and unworthy of contact. Sure, I’ll move it.” I deliberately press my foot further into her bag—leaving a solid imprint on the black canvas—then pick it up and slowly plunk it on the ground, making sure to give my foot a good thud that makes the man to my right jump in his sleep. One breath later he’s snoring again, and I’m all kinds of jealous. It’s dark in here save for the occasional lightning strike, but I can see enough to know that everyone around me is having a better time than I am right now. One, I’m tired. Two, I’m being griped at by a hormonal chick with serious boundaries issues; meaning I don’t care about them and she clearly lives inside a freaking stone tower. No man alive wants to deal with either at four a.m. I think about sneaking a look at the girl, but her low, somewhat raspy voice screams Not-That-Attractive, so I don’t bother. Besides, she’s wearing a Mariners ball cap pulled low across her forehead—I noticed that when I sat down. Yet another strike against her.

  If you’re not a Royals fan, we have nothing in common.

  “My Christmas cheer evaporated a few hours ago at the American Airlines desk, but thank you for that. Nothing better than a nasty shoe imprint on a bag I just cleaned.” She jerks the backpack to her side. “And as for it being one of a kind, it belongs to me. So…yes it is.”

  Perfect. Unattractive and arrogant, the worst combination. I roll my eyes and bite back a sarcastic phrase or three, then decide to take advantage of her sitting here beside me. After all—despite the winning personality—she managed to find the best spot in this crowded terminal, and I’d hate to lose it. Especially right now. I need to pee.

  “Nice to know I’m sitting next to an original.” I scratch an eyebrow and force my tone to sound kinder than I feel. “I realize we just met and haven’t started off on the best of terms, but could you watch my stuff for a second? I need to take a trip to the bathroom and would rather not drag all this with me.” I gesture toward all this, which consists of gray nylon backpack and a cold cup of stale Starbucks, but still. Carrying coffee into a stall is disgusting, no matter which ledge you try to balance it on. Everyone knows what happens when toilets flush.

  I sense her hesitation, but I’m not about to make apologies. It won’t kill her to save my spot. A tiny bag isn’t that much trouble. Without waiting for her answer, I stand and brush off the back of my jeans. Designer, way too expensive, although at least they’re an old pair. For the past six months, I haven’t wanted any reason to stand out, not even when it comes to my clothes. When you make a decision to leave the past behind, you have to go all the way or what’s the point? At least that’s been my logic. Colt Ross needed to find his own way by st
arting back at the beginning, before allowances and image and false pretense came into play. Starting in the middle with a suitcase full of designer clothes seemed a lot like cheating.

  “Fine,” she says, “but hurry up about it. It isn’t my fault if I fall asleep again and someone steals your bag. Gray nylon is in high demand, especially one with a rip down one side.”

  I glance down, unable to help a double-take. Is this her attempt at a joke? Nothing greets me but the top of her bill, yet I can see a corner of her mouth. It’s turned up on a grin. I find myself fighting a smile for the first time in days.

  “Looks can be deceiving. That bag’s filled with nothing but meth and twenties.”

  Her head snaps up and she laughs, but I turn and walk toward the restroom before we can make eye contact. The pressure on my bladder is getting stronger, and until this gets taken care of, communication is at the bottom of my list. Besides, it’s four o’clock in the morning. I’d rather not talk to anyone before consuming a giant vat of coffee, and definitely not a raspy-voiced stranger with the temper of a hand grenade waiting for someone to pull the pin.

  Even if her laugh is nice. Come to think of it, her hair looked nice too.

  I shake off that thought. It’s probably filled with lice.

  Walking out of the stall, I head toward the mirror and get a good glimpse of myself for the first time since leaving my hotel this morning. I’m going home. It might be time to rethink my current look.

  My brown hair, once kept neatly groomed with regular cuts by Beverly Hills’ most expensive stylist, now hangs above my chin. It hasn’t been washed in…I can’t remember the last time. My unshaven face passed five o’clock two days ago and now resides somewhere around six-thirty. My hazel eyes…they look more alive than they’ve been since the day I was born, although stress about what comes next has forced them downward a bit. Expected, since my time in Aruba was cut short, ended instantly and without my permission. The inevitable spiral has begun its descent already.

  I’m going home.

  Home. The last place I want to be. The one place that’s required.

  I have no idea what will greet me, but I’m almost definitely one hundred percent sure it won’t be pleasant.

  Fa la freaking la.

  Gripping the edge of the counter, I take a deep breath and try to force anxiety out of my chest. When a pang of depression takes its place, I hang out next to the sink a bit longer and wish for a razor, but there isn’t one in the bag I left behind with unattractive attitude chick. Suddenly a shave is all I want, maybe even more than the nice spot beside the window.

  With a glance upward, I give up wishing and flip on the faucet, thinking I might not be able to do much damage to my skin, but at least I can make some progress with my hair. Pumping a few shots of white foam from the wall dispenser into my hand, I shove my head under the stream of water and get to work, scrubbing and scratching until my head practically squeaks in protest. Oscar, my stylist, would convulse in horror if he saw me using this cheap crap. I’m done with expensive cuts. One thing I’ve learned in my time away: two hundred dollars is way too much to pay for a trim when a pair of kid’s school scissors works just as well. Probably. It isn’t exactly a tested conclusion. I haven’t had my hair cut since I left home.

  I reach for a couple of paper towels and rub them across my head, cringing when little white flecks stick around uninvited. Crumpling the towels into a ball, I run both hands through my hair and shake it back and forth, happy to see the white debris fall to the floor. Wanting to avoid appearing like a dripping mess, I press the button on the automatic hand dryer and kneel underneath it. Thank God no one is in here with me; I look ridiculous.

  After thirty seconds or so, I stand and check the results in the mirror, run my hands through my hair, turn my head to the left and then right, and shrug. Not bad, I guess. It’s still damp, but it’s softer and less stringy at least. I could pass for half-way decent. In some circles, one might even call me good looking.

  My dad wouldn’t, but he’s not here. According to the nasty lady behind the airline counter, I have at least one more day until I have to face him.

  Satisfied with my newly clean look, I wind my way through the bathroom exit and find myself in the terminal hallway once again. Maybe it’s the idea of discarding the old and starting new again, but suddenly I’m awake. All I want right now is find some coffee and go for a long walk. But then I’d lose my spot. Another couple hours of sleep won’t kill me.

  It’s still dark. A hint of light is beginning to turn the sky a lighter shade of blue…like a dining room bulb set to the lowest dimmer switch. It isn’t enough to help with seeing anything, but it does marginally outline the shapes of sprawling bodies to ensure I won’t step on anyone.

  It isn’t until I’m back in my spot and seated against the wall that I think to say thank you to the girl. Crossing one ankle over the other, I consider saying nothing for a second, but guilt gets the better of me, and I roll my head sideways to get a good look at the chick with the annoyingly sexy voice. If I’m going to show my appreciation, she’s going to see me doing it.

  She must sense my eyes on her, because she rolls her head to the side to look at me, making direct eye contact. My pulse trips and I pull in a breath and my heart skips a beat or two or five. I’m careful not to show any of this. Nothing in her expression registers recognition.

  As far as she recalls, she doesn’t know me at all. With a dry throat that makes speaking nothing but a passing dream no longer even remotely possible for me, I realize with growing shock…

  I know her.

  Chapter 3

  Rory

  He recognizes me.

  Not that he doesn’t try to hide it with quickly averted eyes, but I see the way they pop out of his head before he forces them downward. I also see him swallow. Hear his labored intake of breath. Notice the way his mouth curls up on a hint of a grin.

  This all happens in two seconds. It takes even less time for me to deduct that his reaction means one of two things. Either he remembers me from television, or he subscribes to the magazine whose cover I recently graced. I’ll go with the second one. There isn’t a straight man in America who would admit to actually watching America’s Favorite Model. Still, figures it’s the first option.

  Men. They pretend to subscribe to that magazine out of a love for football, but that issue outsells all the other issues combined every single year.

  I scoot over a fraction of an inch, aware that I’m judging a guy I don’t know for looking at pictures that I willingly took. But there’s a big difference in being someone who poses in a string bikini—emphasis on the strings—and being someone who ogles the pictures. Besides, that shoot was for a respectable, nationally known publication and I did it to advance my career. He bought the magazine for…

  I scoot away a little more.

  I don’t make it far before a harsh, breathy laugh escapes his throat.

  “Okay, let’s get something straight before you move over so far you fall out of that window you’re practically clinging to.” He deliberately props a foot on my bag and leans back just to tick me off. “I know who you are—we’ve actually met before—but you’re safe. As of an hour ago, I’ve sworn off women.” His eyes close. He couldn’t look more bored if I started reciting algorithms out loud. “Even beautiful supermodel-types who’ve already shown me their goods on multiple occasions.”

  My mouth falls open with that outrageous statement. “I have not shown you my—”

  “Yes you have.” A slow smile creeps into his voice even as his head rolls to the side in a search to find a comfortable position. Once successful, he sighs long and slow. “Believe me, you have. More times, in more places, and in more positions…than you know.”

  “That’s disgusting!”

  “Let me be the first to say it wasn’t. God did a good job with you. If I were you, I’d get on my knees right now and thank Him.”

  “For having nice goods?” Is
this guy insane?

  He grins. “Yep. Among other things.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s ridiculous. “I’ll be sure to do that in the morning.”

  I lean my head against the wall, indignation buzzing across my skin like a million mosquitos that I can’t swat away. Then I remember something he said.

  “What do you mean we’ve met before? I’ve met a lot of annoying people over the last year, but none quite as crass as you. If we had met, I think I would remember it.”

  A cocky grin spreads across his face. With his eyes closed he almost looks pensive, like he’s…remembering. It’s enough to make me feel exposed underneath this cheap, ineffective ball cap otherwise known as my crappy impromptu disguise. I bought it right before I left Seattle. Clearly it wasn’t worth the money.

  I don’t like being the outsider on an inside joke.

  “I’m not surprised you don’t remember, but I do. Every last second of it.”

  I especially don’t like it when the joke is on me.

  “Was it at a party? A photo shoot?”

  “Apparently it doesn’t matter. And since I made no impression on you at all back then, let’s leave it that way.”

  I can’t.

  Because my entire life, I’ve hated secrets. And surprise parties. And Christmas presents displayed in pretty wrapped packages days before I could open them.

  There’s no way I can live without knowing this.

  “Come on, tell me how we met. The story can’t be that great anyway.” He doesn’t even open his eyes, just turns his head away from me and sighs like not answering won’t affect my ability to sleep the next forty-eight hours. He has to answer. He has no choice. I glance at his left bicep and refrain from wrapping my hands around it and giving a violent squeeze. He probably wouldn’t see me as much of a threat anyway. So I try a different tactic and shake my head. “I think you’re lying. We’ve never met.”