Page 7 of That Time I Kissed The Groomsman Grump
Mine is nowhere in sight.
I turn to Brady and sigh. “So much for my bag being first, huh?”
His eyes shift over my head and beyond me. “That one must be yours.” I spin around in time to see my Samsonite drop onto the conveyor belt. It’s hot pink, with an even hotter-pink ribbon tied to the handle.
“Yes!”
“I didn’t know suitcases even came in that color.” Brady shakes his head, and my cheeks flush brighter than my bag. I just wanted my bag to be easy to spot, but he probably thinks I’m looking for attention.
All you need in LA is a bikini.
I huff out a breath, stomping over to the conveyor belt to snag my embarrassing bag. Brady follows close behind, reaching around me to grab the case.
“I’ve got it,” I say. To prove my point, I bend down and snatch the handle at the same time he does. When our fingers brush, a spark of heat whips up my arm, then to my toes. My brain. My heart. But I can’t let my body parts get hot and sparky. So I yank the handle to get my hand away from his, because I can manage my own carry-on, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, I pull so hard, my fingers slide off the handle, and I topple backward, landing hard on my butt. The suitcase follows, smacking the tile next to me. And since I hate dealing with combinations, I didn’t lock the dual clasps. That’s why the case pops open, and the contents of my carry-on spill onto the floor.
Heels.
Hairdryer.
Cosmetics bag.
Underwear.
One barely-there turquoise-blue bikini and a lacy white negligee. Price tags still on. Brady stares for a couple of beats too long. “I thought you said one pieces leave more to the imagination?”
“They do.” My throat scorches hot. The bathing suit and nightie are actually gifts for Kasey at her bachelorette party. The private bungalow Beau rented for their Bora Bora honeymoon is the perfect place for a new wife to wear a bikini and lingerie. But I’m not about to tell Brady that. He won’t want to picture his little sister wearing these in Bora Bora.
Or anywhere.
He reaches out to help me up, but I ignore the gentlemanly gesture. I’m still tingly from our accidental touch, and my whole face already feels splotchy. So I scramble to my knees and start repacking everything myself. While Brady stands over me, I wedge my hairdryer into one side of the case. Then I snatch a pair of panties off the floor. When I hazard a peek up at Brady, his eyes cut to the underwear. He shifts his jaw. “Need any help?”
“No thank you.” I spit a wedge of blonde hair out of my mouth. “Why is it always harder to get things back into a bag at the end of a trip?”
“Because you fold everything neatly when you first pack.”
I look up again, coughing out a laugh. “You’ve heard of rhetorical questions, haven’t you, Dr. Graham?”
He frowns. “I’m a technician. Not a vet.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.” Just then, a bulldog of a man rolls his suitcase right over my favorite pajamas. They’re baby-blue cotton with dogs printed all over them. The dogs are playing guitars. They’re completely adorable.
“Watch your suitcase,” Brady growls, but the guy rolls on without a backward glance. Brady reaches down and scoops up the pajamas. “Here.” He hands them to me.
“Thanks.” I lay the pajamas on my mound of clothes and resume stuffing things back into the case. Eventually I give up trying to balance the last pair of socks on the pile, and stick them in my purse with my dead phone. Then I glance up at Brady.
Big mistake.
“We don’t have to make this awkward,” he says. Then he clenches his teeth, which only makes him look even more handsome.
Why did I glance at him again?
“I’m notawkward,” I blurt. “Why would we be awkward?”
He raises an eyebrow, and I shrug. Itotallyknow why we’d be awkward.
“Fine.” He runs a hand along the back of his neck. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
