Page 7 of Changed Plan

“We have a wheeled version as well.”

“Of course you do. Show me.”

They’re all quilted, even the wheeled version. And the patterns are . . . well, my grandmother would be thrilled to own any one of them. I’m definitely giving it to her after my trip. That almost justifies the expense. “I’ll take that one.”

The saleswoman asks me to clarify which one I’m pointing at, which forces me to actually choose. I really don’t care. They’re all equally ugly, but I go with the blue paisley design. It’s the most understated of the color combinations.

In all fairness, I dislike patterns on the whole. I don’t know what people have against solid colors.

Two stores down, I pass a leather shop with gorgeous bags in the window, including a backpack that probably costs twice as much as what I just spent. If the sales clerk in the last store hadn’t talked me into the sensible bag that I’m now pulling along behind me, I might impulse-buy that backpack.

In light of all the money I just saved, I may as well buy myself a nice meal. Or as nice as I can find within the next five minutes because I’m seriously hungry all of a sudden.

I make a loop through the terminal, checking out the restaurant choices, and ultimately decide Italian is my best option. The hostess smiles when I approach. “You’re in luck if you want a table. I just had a two-top open up.”

“I’ll take it.”

Someone behind me immediately says, “Mind if I join you?”

I’m pretty sure I recognize that voice, so I shouldn’t be shocked when I turn around and confirm it’s Zane.

“So, you are a stalker.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve spent the last half hour trying really hard not to be one.”

“I don’t even want to know what that means, do I?”

“Probably not. But can I share your table?”

“You’re not going to offer to buy?”

“I’m still working out a plan in my head of how I can covertly pick up the tab without offending you.”

“Do you really think you’re that crafty?”

“Well, you haven’t heard my plan yet. I could tell you all about it over dinner.”

I bite back a smile. Dammit. What is it about this guy? This is the second time today he’s invaded my space. And still his presence doesn’t make me want to punch him in the face.

Maybe that’s it—his face. Being that attractive probably gets him a lot of free passes, but I’m not usually so generous with them.

A couple wearing matching t-shirts—straight to jail!—walks deliberately in our direction. There’s no mistaking they are headed for this restaurant. They look hungry. There is only one open table. Fuck me.

“We’ll take the table,” I confirm.

As soon as we’re seated, he says, “I see you got a carry-on.”

“I can’t help how ugly it is. It’s all they had.”

“Looks fine to me.”

“You probably grew up carrying a monogramed backpack with your prep school logo on it. What do you know?”

“Uniforms were mandated. We didn’t choose them. Anyway, I’d like to think my fashion sense has evolved.” He smiles across the table at me.

His fashion sense is pretty damn good. Almost like he has a personal shopper. For all I know, he does.

“I hope you’re not going to be offended when I order a steak.” I flip the menu over to be sure I haven’t missed anything.

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