Page 3 of The Widower's Girlfriend
How do I know?
My lacy bra, the one that I bought on a whim a few months back when I was excited about a blind date—don’t ask—and never saw the light of day, is spilling out the side of the suitcase. I run up, push a man out of the way, panic stealing my manners and freezing my brain. All I can think is that I have to get my bag off the belt ASAP before it goes all the way around showing off my bra to every passenger on the plane.
I grab the handle, the only one still connected to the bag, and pull it off the belt with all the muscle I’ve built lifting patients and moving beds. The suitcase flies off the belt, but spills open at my feet. The zipper is hanging off the bottom, having been ripped off at some point in transportation.
“Seriously?” Hands on hips, I address my bag, like it might just offer up an apology for being a lousy excuse for a suitcase. My face feels like it’s on fire and to make matters worse, I feel a single drop of sweat slip down my back. I’m totally flustered and I haven’t even met up with my friends yet.
I plop my purse on the ground and crouch down to stuff my clothes and toiletries back into the suitcase in a jumbled mess, completely unconcerned with wrinkles at this point. A shadow covers me and for a split second I actually think the end is near for me. I’ve been brought down to this level by a silly suitcase and now the Reaper is here for me.
Did I mention I work around kids all day?
“Need some duct tape?” The Reaper speaks and his velvety voice sounds a whole lot more delicious than I would have guessed. I raise my gaze only to find the handsome stranger standing above me, a roll of gray duct tape extended in my direction. A waft of woodsy cologne floats across and I inhale like a starving woman.
Figures he’d be the one to come to my rescue.
I nod gratefully and take the tape. “Thank you. That should help.” Now that my clothes are all safely inside where they should be, I wrap the tape around the suitcase and get it closed tighter than the decades-old zipper. I ignore all the stares I can feel on my back as everyone feels sorry for the girl with the exploding luggage.
When I stand back up, he’s still there, eyeing my suitcase dubiously, which I totally get. It’s been nothing short of a disaster today. But it’s not like he has to help me. It’s my problem, not his.
“Thank you for the tape.” I hand it back and smile widely, hoping he takes the apology for what it really is: goodbye.
His gaze moves over my face, his eyes crinkling and the smirk making a reappearance. “You got a little something...” He gestures toward his mouth and my eyes widen.
I swipe across my mouth, but he just shakes his head, the smirk getting smirkier and my embarrassment ratcheting up several notches. “What is it?”
“Did you have coffee this morning?” he asks.
I run my tongue over my teeth and immediately feel grunge between my two front teeth. I roll my eyes and try to explain, the whole time keeping my teeth from showing while I speak. “I did, but the last sip was straight States Airlines coffee grounds. It’s in my teeth, isn’t it?”
The smirk finally leaves and I get a blinding smile. “It really is.”
My stomach is doing somersaults. I hook a finger over my shoulder then remember to continue covering my mouth. “Okay, well, thanks for the heads-up and I’ll just go die a silent death over at the taxi line. Thanks again for the tape.” I can’t even look him in the eye, my mortification is so complete.
With coffee grounds in my teeth and duct tape holding my suitcase together, I throw my shoulders back and walk out of the Denver airport like I really do have my life together.
Who needs a tall, dark, and handsome man anyway?
3
Walker
She’s killing me.
Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s a highly entertaining walking disaster. When I handed her the duct tape I grabbed from the Information desk and saw the food in her teeth, I was charmed. Then she used wit to talk her way through the embarrassment and I was intrigued. Now, as I watch her walk out of the airport like a princess leaving her kingdom, I can’t help but remember the lacy pink bra that escaped her suitcase. Of course, those thoughts naturally lead to thoughts of what she’d look likeinthe undergarment and I scramble to think of something else. Anything else to wipe that from my brain.
It’s understandable. I haven’t been married for eight years. Which feels like a lifetime. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to be attracted to a warm-blooded female. I didn’t make a conscious decision to remain celibate after my wife died, but it happened anyway. After loving someone and losing them to a disease that never should have happened to one so young, I couldn’t even fathom entering into a relationship with someone on a surface level. I gave up all ability to handle surface-level conversations when I had to plan my wife’s funeral at the age of twenty-six.
But something about this blonde woman with the failed attempts at adulting in the airport is grabbing my attention. She’s making me want a relationship again. Which is both a relief and terrifying. Talking about moving on and actually moving on are two totally different animals. Especially when I have my sights set on a woman who clearly hasn’t been tested by the world on any kind of deep level. We’d never work out, I just know it.
I grab my bag off the conveyer belt—all in one piece I might add—and walk out to the line of taxis waiting to pick up passengers. The blonde is a few people ahead of me in line and I use the time to observe her and try to come up with the reasons she intrigues me on a deeper level.
She’s currently talking with a mom and her young daughter ahead of her in line. The little girl is sucking her thumb, but the second the blonde starts talking to her she drops the thumb and smiles up at her like they’re instant best friends. The sight tugs at heartstrings I didn’t know existed. I never got a chance to have children with my wife and if I don’t speed things up in the dating department, I’ll never have the chance.
Strangely, it never bothered me before.
“The Hilton off 14th Street, please.” It’s her turn and she’s about to lift her suitcase into the cab’s trunk. The driver rushes around to help her and I see his eyes widen comically when he sees the duct tape. “Don’t ask...” she tells him with a quick headshake.
I bite back a groan and move forward, oblivious to everyone else in line ahead of me. “I’m going to the same hotel. Mind if we share?”
