Page 17 of From Wink to Kink

"Oh, Mr. Newcomb," one of the attendants giggles, "we're such big fans. Do you think maybe we could get a picture later?"

So. Gross.

People are ridiculous. They’re acting like he’s some kind of freaking god or something, when he’s just a ripped hockey player with a penchant for being a hot-headed jerk. Thank God I’m headed to my retreat because I’m sure there’s no way in hell he’d attend something soevolved. God forbid, he might end up developing a couple insights about himself—the kiss of death for jock meatheads like him. He’s the kind of guy who thinks reading is for nerds and emotions are for the weak.

He’s probably getting picked up by some celebrity to be taken out on a yacht.

I roll my eyes as I scrunch down, throwing on my bucket for extra privacy, and pulling it low over my eyes.

Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me...

He’d probably never recognize me anyway, but why risk it?

I can't help but feel a mix of irritation and something else... something I'm not quite ready to admit thatmight be a twinge of jealousy. Not that I want Chuck's attention, God no. But when was the last time anyone looked at me like that? Like I was something special, not just the weird librarian girl who'd rather hang out with fictional characters than real people?

And go for a roll in the hay with the library’s resident IT dork?

I shake off the thought. This retreat is about finding myself, not pining after the attention of lunkheads like Chuck Newcomb.

As the plane taxis, I scan the retreat brochure for the hundredth time. Yoga at sunrise, meditation workshops, nature hikes... it all sounds so peaceful. So far removed from loud hockey games and rowdy sports bars. I smile to myself. At least I know I won't be running into Chuck there.

When we take off,I watch San Francisco get smaller from my window. I dive back into my book and manage to ignore the low rumble of Chuck’s laughter a few rows back. I get lost in my thriller once again, and after a brief snooze full of dreams about sun-soaked beaches and the sound of crashing waves, the plane begins its descent. Nerves churn in my stomach, twined with excitement.

It's happening, yo.

The flight attendants come around with a last-minute snack, and I have to admit, first-class dining is a far cry from the mystery meat sandwiches I'm used to in economy. As I'm savoring a bite of what I'm pretty sure is the best salmon I've ever tasted, I overhear a snippet of conversation from behind. I remind myself not to grind my teeth at the sound it.

"So, Mr. Newcomb, are you headed to Costa Rica for vacation?" one of the attendants asks, her voice syrupy sweet.

"Something like that," he replies, a smirk in his voice. "Let's just say I'm on a... wellness journey."

I nearly choke on my salmon. A wellness journey?Chuck Newcomb? The same guy who once tried to fight the entire Anaheim Ducks team single-handedly?

No. No, no, no. He can't possibly be going tomyretreat. I’m sure there is more than one wellness resort in Costa Rica. He’s probably going to the show-off-jock one.

Right?

Regardless, I spend the rest of the flight on the verge of low-key panic, jumping every time I hear movement behind me. By the time we start our descent into San José, I've concocted at least a dozen elaborate plans to avoid Chuck.

As soon as the seatbelt sign goes off, we begin to stand to disembark, but there’s a commotion behind me. Chuck, because he’s Chuck, is rushing down the aisle to the front of the plane instead of waiting his turn. I curl my lip in disdain. The man has proven yet again that he's the massive douchebag I always thought he was, and now I’m doubly disgusted.

As we weave through the terminal, I hang back far enough to hide but close enough to keep an eye on him. He still doesn’t notice me at the baggage carousel, nor when we walk out to the curb to catch our ground transport.

That’s when I see him climb into a fancy limo. Thankfully, I’m rid of him and the possibility of running into him, but really? A limo?

A a man holding a sign with the resort logo appears.

"Hi," I pant, skidding to a stop in front of him. "I'm Ruby Brooks. Here for the retreat."

He politely takes my bag and I follow him, passing by a public bus with people hanging out the windows, yelling at arriving passengers and selling their wares. I smile at the quaintness of it all, and am so distracted, I slam right into the back of him.

I laugh. I’m on vacation. I’ve got to laugh, right? “I’m so sorry,Señor. I need to pay better attention.”

“It is no problem,Señorita.” He gestures toward the bus entrance, the bus with people hanging out the windows.

A quick peek inside reveals that regular dining room chairs replace a few of the bus seats.

Is that even legal?

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