Page 14 of Changed Plan

“A lot is a subjective term.”

That means yes. He’s well-traveled. I’ve been to six states and St. Croix, which isn’t nothing, but it doesn’t exactly make me a world traveler either.

“What do you do, Zane Jacoby?”

“I told you. I’m a jewel thief.”

I tilt my head upward and stare into his hazel eyes, trying not to laugh. He’s wittier than anyone as good looking as him has a right to be. Damn, he is incredibly attractive. And funny. And seemingly kind so far, but nobody’s perfect. There is a flaw in there somewhere.

“You sure do talk a lot about crime. First, your serial killer references, and now claiming to be a professional thief. I’m starting to think maybe I shouldn’t be alone with you.”

“I thought beautiful girls always liked bad boys.”

“That’s a false presumption, like the one that says bad boys only want the sweetest girls.”

The train stops, but no one gets on. When we start going again, he says, “I was never a bad boy.”

“I was never the sweetest girl.”

“Funny how we want each other anyway.”

I sit forward, pulling away from his side, but turning to face him. “That was bold.”

Before I can utter another word, his hands cup my face, and he leans forward like he’s going to kiss me. He hesitates for a moment, and my pulse quickens unexpectedly. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and then he looks at me like he’s suddenly unsure if he should go through with it.

Is he worried I’m some desperate woman who will fall madly in love with him if he kisses me, and he’ll never be able to get rid of me? Does he think I’m so naïve that I’ve never had a casual kiss before? Please! I am the queen of casual.

I initiate the contact of our lips. And he does not hesitate to participate in this decidedly unchaste kiss.

Holy shit. Add excellent kisser to his profile.

Our tongues assume a rhythm that feels stunningly familiar, but it’s still delivering all the excitement of a first kiss. Or the way they used to feel exciting. His hands slide into my hair and massage my scalp, which melts my spine.

By the time we arrive at the next stop, I’m halfway in his lap. And I would be happy to stay right here and continue our kiss if not for the family boarding the train with us. They have three very tired and cranky kids in tow.

I slide down until my butt meets the bench and face forward again.

The parents eye us with pleading looks. Looks that saysorry to intrude, but please just be nice about this. And maybe alsoplease don’t make-out in front of our kids.

Their toddler girl asks if this train is like the one at the aquarium, but she calls it the “querium,” and it’s pretty damn cute, even if she did just interrupt what might’ve been the greatest kiss of my life.

Her oldest brother, who looks to be about nine, says, “Yeah, but when we get off, there won’t be any penguins. Just more stupid airport.”

When the train slows again, Zane nods toward the door. We stand, and he says, “Well, this is our stop.”

The little girl looks up at him and asks, “Are we at the querium?”

“No, not yet. This is Rome. I hope you enjoy the train.”

As we step off, the middle boy asks, “What’s Rome?”

His older brother says, “It’s in another country. But we’re not. We’re still in this stupid airport.” The doors close, and they’re gone.

Zane and I both laugh, and I’m grateful for the humor chasing away the awkwardness of being caught making out at thirty-years-old. The kid’s not wrong, though. We are still stuck in this stupid airport, but the worst thing isn’t my canceled flight, anymore. It’s this new tension in the air between us.

Everything feels more chaotic than before we got on the train. There are more kids running around. There’s an obviously drunk guy screaming into his phone. This section of the terminal has more gates, fewer shops and restaurants. So many people.

“This must be the touristy part of Rome,” I say.

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