Page 11 of Protecting the Flame

Chapter 6

She almost made it.Fifty feet from the entrance to the charters’ hangar, she suddenly retched, her mouth filled with sour spit, and she knew she had about twenty seconds. Veering into a men’s room—empty, thank God—she sped past a bank of urinals, slammed into a stall, dropped her pack, jackknifed at the waist, held her hair back with one hand, and hung over the bowl as she coughed out a flood of vomit. It didn’t take long; other than the muffin, her stomach had been empty. When she was done, she spat, flushed, shouldered her pack, and was reaching for the latch when she heard that distinctive rasp only a zipper makes and then the unmistakable sound of someone taking a tinkle.

Shit. She glanced at her watch. The pilot had texted ten minutes ago. He wouldn’t leave, would he? Quickly, she pulled out her phone and tapped out a message: Got hung up. On my way now. Slipping her cell into a leg pocket of her cargo pants, she waited until she heard a flush. She was about to call out a warning when the man beyond the stall said, “It’s safe.”

Heat flooded up her neck. How had he known? Unlatching the slider lock, she palmed the door open and stepped out.

“You okay?” He was at the sink, soaping his hands, and eyed her reflection in a mirror. “Bad sushi?”

That threw her. “I’m sorry?”

“Sushi. Does it to me every time. You’d think I’d learn not to buy sushi from anyplace that’s landlocked, but…” He smiled into the mirror, and a small dimple showed on the right. “I like to live dangerously.”

Despite her embarrassment, she felt her mouth kick into a lopsided grin. “No, only an upset tummy.” Moving to the sink, she punched on water and soaped her hands. Her eyes strayed to his left hand. No ring. Didn’t necessarily mean anything. And what are you thinking? You, of all people, you don’t get to think about things like that. As she rinsed, she noticed a tiny pink worm of a scar peeping from the bottom edge of her left cuff. Crap. Quickly yanking down the left sleeve and then the right for good measure, she rinsed then dug out a plastic Ziploc with her toothpaste and toothbrush from her backpack as well as her new bottle of mouthwash. She should’ve bought two while she was it. Maybe emptied out the store.

He watched her reflection squirt a worm of toothpaste onto her brush. “You sure you’re all right? You’re pretty pale.”

“I’m okay.” Keeping an eye on her right cuff—she had a feeling this guy didn’t miss much—she focused on brushing her teeth fast before someone else wandered in. The way the guy was still looking freaked her out a little, and when his eyes drifted to her chest, she felt a twist of disgust. Perv.

She was about to spit and tell him so when he said, “Nice necklace. Looks old. The stone, that is. Unusual to see a ruby in a cabochon cut.”

Her necklace had flopped out when she was yorping. “Uh, yeah,” she mumbled through foam. Tucking the charm back inside her collar, she spat, rinsed, swished, tugged down both sleeves at the cuffs again, and said, “Thanks. It was my grandmother’s.” Now, why had she bothered with that? “Anyway, thanks for, you know, being so understanding about me…” She gestured toward the stall she’d vacated.

“Don’t mention it.” Hefting an enormous pack to which he’d also lashed a sleeping bag and snowshoes, he slotted a folded copy of the Minot Daily News under an arm and moved to the exit. “Feel better and safe travels.”

He had a nice smile. And his eyes—she dried her toothbrush under a blow-dryer—they were hazel, weren’t they? Only they’d also changed color with the light. Shouldering her daypack, she headed for the exit. When they caught the light, his eyes were a warm shade of amber.

As she turned out of the bathroom, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. Probably the pilot, again. Tugging out her cell, she thumbed her way past the lock screen and started reading the message.

A man’s voice, way too close. “Oh, good, there you—”

“What?” Her head jerked up, and she head-butted the guy. “Oof!” Her jaw snapped shut with an audible click. A sharp dart of pain arrowed into her tongue. The smack set a swarm of white fireflies flitting before her eyes. Reeling, she heard her cell clatter to the floor and felt her boots tangle.

“Whoa, whoa, I got you.” Clamping a hand onto her left elbow, he held her steady as she regained her footing. “Are you all right? God, I’m so sorry.” He nodded toward the unfolded newspaper he still had in his right hand. “I figured I’d read my paper and, you know, stand guard until you were done to keep other guys from walking in until you had—”

“I’m all right, thanks.” Her head ached, and her tongue hurt, though they couldn’t compete with the embarrassed flush prickling her neck. Scooping up her cell, she said, “I should’ve been watching where I was going. I hate it when people do that, too, you know?” She was babbling but couldn’t help herself, she was so mortified. “Zombie-walking when they ought to be paying attention to—”

“You’re bleeding.” He made an abortive moment as if to thumb something away from her mouth then stopped. Reaching around to a hip pocket, he tugged out a packet of tissues. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Tweezing out a tissue, she blotted and peeked then wrinkled her nose at the spot of blood. “I’m sorry. That was very sweet of you, but I’m late, and I really have to go. I’m headed that way,” she said, taking a step back and hooking a thumb over her shoulder. “I don’t want the pilot to leave without me.”

“Me neither.” He waggled his cell. “Got another nastygram.”

“You—” Oh, this is just perfect. She ought to give Nora Roberts a jingle. With this kind of meet-cute, she was destined for her own series. Maybe Renèe Zellweger would star. Although she’d already jumped to the third film in the series, hadn’t she? “You’re going to Montana,” she said, flatly.

“As it happens.” Showing that grin again, he stuck out a hand. “Will Shirer.”

He had a nice grip, too, and his palm was warm, though a little calloused, as if he was outdoors a lot. From the looks of his pack, this was probably true. “Emma Gold.”

“Nice to meet you, Emma.” He broke contact first. “Guess we’d better hustle before the pilot takes off without us.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Guess we’d better.”

---