Page 13 of Married with Mayhem

An hour has passed since we spoke but I’m sure reaching the airport is no small feat today.

A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I push my long brown hair over my shoulder and wish I had a clip handy to sweep it up.

Though I’m doing my best to stay out of everyone’s way while keeping an eye on the approaching cars, I get jostled frombehind and stumble, landing hard on my left ankle, which is my bad ankle. I suck in my breath with a hiss of pain.

“Sorry,” says a sheepish teenage boy right before he dashes into the street and starts dodging cars.

Adjusting the weight of my backpack, I tighten the knot of the sweatshirt around my waist since I have nowhere else to put it. On top of hunger and heat and general turmoil, I’m on Day Two of my period and I’ve already swallowed my last dose of ibuprofen.

A fresh wave of cramps squeezes my lower belly. There is precisely one more tampon remaining in my bag. The situation will start to feel desperate very soon.

And just like that, a new game idea pops into my head.

You feel your period coming on but a fire-breathing dragon stands between you and a cozy refuge where there’s a bubble bath, a heating pad, and boxed chocolates. Slay the dragon and your reward is relaxing with huge mugs of ginger tea, a library filled with romance novels and a closet full of fluffy, oversized bathrobes.

It’s a niche concept for sure. Men will never understand just how much the lives of women revolve around our period. We fear it, we dread it, we rearrange our plans around it. But I think the idea could catch on with the right audience. There are more women joining the gaming world all the time.

I’m still sorting out the general outline in my head when a gruff, familiar voice startles me out of my daydreams.

“Who are you looking for, Gamer Girl?”

As I whirl around, I manage to accidentally smack the new arrival with my backpack, though I’m sure he felt no pain.

Monte Castelli is stacked with more muscle than ever. And I’d forgotten how tall he is. As he straightens up to his full height, he towers over the top of my head.

Seeing him is the best thing that’s happened to me all day. All week. Hell, in the last six months.

Without a second thought, I grab him like he’s a life preserver and I’m a floundering Titanic victim. My arms wrap around his torso and squeeze. My cheek collides with hard muscle in the middle of his chest.

He’s warm and solid. He smells like soap and oregano. He feels like home.

And now I’m having trouble letting go. I’m going to blame the menstrual hormones for a sudden surge of weepiness as I cling to him.

Seconds pass and I’m still clinging.

My face is squashed into his chest with the steady thud of his heartbeat under my left temple.

I’m sure he’s starting to wonder why I’m hugging him the way one might hug a lover returning from war. To be honest, I’m wondering the same thing. We don’t share a ‘hug’ level of friendship. We’ve always had a verbal sparring, eye-rolling kind of rapport that can usually be described as grudging.

Doesn’t matter. Monte Castelli is a sight for sore eyes and it’s been a while since I’ve felt this thrilled to see anyone. To my horror, I’m sniffling by the time I pull away.

To my even bigger horror, he notices.

“What happened?” Monte hunches down to peer more closely at my face, tipping my chin up so he can see my eyes. I’m not crying, not exactly, but I can’t argue that my mood is emotionally unsteady.

Judging by the sudden thunder overtaking Monte’s face, he’s getting the wrong idea. I’m having trouble finding words because I’m too worried that my nose might start dripping.

“Did someone fucking touch you?” He starts glaring in every direction in search of possible culprits.

The cop directing traffic is not spared from Monte’s suspicious scowl, nor is the adorable white-haired man who totters along with his equally adorable white-haired wife on his arm.

“No, nothing like that.” I shake my head. “Some smoke got in my eyes.”

The menacing glint disappears from his dark eyes and his tense muscles loosen. Now that I’m getting a good look at him, I can’t stop staring. Monte’s appearance could always be summed up as Born To Be Wild.

His muscled arms are even thicker. The grey t-shirt he wears can’t hide the defined contours of his chest and shoulders. There’s a hint of dark shadow on his jaw. Around his neck hangs a gold chain with a cross and an Italian horn. He’s worn both for as long as I’ve known him.

Monte’s superior looks would turn heads anywhere but he also simmers with a far trickier quality. If you have to give it a name, I guess you’d call it sex appeal. That appeal is laced with something volatile and damn near irresistible. The trace of a bruise on his right cheek somehow only adds to his magnetism.

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