I take my position to the side of the conveyor belt bringing the luggage to the carousel and wait. In a shocking twist, I’m startled when the white of my bags is the first thing I see cresting the top of the hill and dumping onto the shiny silver metal.
Woo-hoo! This almost never happens!
I jockey through the crowd, using gentle elbows to make my body seem bigger than it is, and lean over the edge as I wait for my luggage to get to me. Having them right in a row is a challenge, but thanks to all my hyping, I’m gamed up and ready.
I step forward and latch on to the first handle and then the second, and I grit my teeth against the weight of them as I pull two of my suitcases with both of my arms and lift.
Unfortunately, between the weight and the instability of the soles of my poorly planned sandals, the bags and the carousel lift me, instead of the other way around.
Shit, oh shit! I scream internally as the panic of being dragged along in front of the people waiting for their luggage overwhelms me. Do something, Daisy!
Within a second, I’m fully aboard the carousel, the handles of my bags still in my hands as I ride around the oval like an airport cowboy. People start to shout for security—and I’m so tangled in myself and my hysteria that I can’t figure out how to get free.
Before I know it, the conveyor looms ahead, the bulky weight of the bags it’s spitting out dangerously apparent by the sound they make when they slide to the bottom.
Oh God. Oh God! I’m going to be crushed!
I’m a little ashamed to say that the first and only line of defense I can come up with is to close my eyes, but that’s probably why it’s so shocking when large hands scoop under my knees and around my back and lift me free of the chaos.
A yell of panic swells in my throat, but when I open my eyes to the tall handsomeness of my contractual husband, all my terror recedes like a wave.
Holy shit, Flynn?!
He sets me down on my feet, and I pull my white T-shirt down until only the small sliver of my stomach that’s supposed to be exposed is left in the breeze.
My eyes feel so wide they might take over my face, and my chest heaves with the exertion of my debacle.
“That was a bit of a close call, huh?” he asks as if I haven’t just single-handedly brought shame to the city of New York.
“W-what are you doing here?”
“I came to pick you up from the airport,” he answers simply, only then releasing his hold on my hips he’d been using to steady me.
“You came to pick me up?” I question, dumbfounded. I… Well, I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t think this. “We didn’t make any arrangements, and I figured I was going to meet you at your apartment.”
He frowns. “Daisy, there was no way in hell I was going to make you navigate the New York craziness by yourself after a long flight. That’d be cruel.”
I search his vivid blue eyes for a long moment, for something, anything, to calm the racing beat of my heart and the twisted, almost painful warmth in my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever known what it’s like to have someone other than myself this invested in my well-being.
“So…uh…since you’re here, mind helping me get my bags off the carousel? I’m still fresh off adrenaline from that near-death experience a few minutes ago, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to give it a second go just yet.”
He grins. Nods. And steps forward to snag the large white suitcase that started the clusterfuck in the first place. As he pulls it off the carousel, I point to the one next to it. And then another one.
And another one.
“That’s it,” I finally declare once four large—and heavy—suitcases are off the track and sitting beside me. “I took your advice and packed light,” I say through the embarrassment.
The sarcasm makes Flynn laugh, and my chest inflates dramatically. Gah, that might be the best sound ever.
I have the immediate and almost overpowering desire to make it happen again.
Flynn handles my shitshow of bags with ease, leaving me with only my backpack and carry-on to manage.
He looks strong, confident, calm, and—dare I say it—content.
As we make our way out of the airport and head in the direction of Flynn’s car, I can’t stop myself from thinking that if I were an innocent bystander watching our interaction, I might actually believe that we are husband and wife. In a serious relationship, at the very least.
Which, I guess, is a good thing, right?
For getting a green card? Yes. For your future sanity? Probably not.
Flynn
The elevator dings our arrival on my floor, and I jerk my chin for Daisy to go ahead of me and her four suitcases. She’s been relatively silent since we left the airport, choosing instead to spend her time surveying the city around her as we drove, saying only a singular “wow” when I drove my Range Rover into the underground garage beneath my apartment building.
I know it’s a lot—moving here, across the country, to the apartment of a man she barely knows—so I don’t push her. She’ll have plenty to say in her own time; I’m pretty much sure of that.
I hand her the keys to open the lock, and after pushing the door open, she heads to the kitchen first, located right off the entryway hallway, to divest herself of her backpack and carry-on—and then performs a slow spin into the living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows at the side make the light so bright that a gentle dust floats in the air, and the leather of my cognac-colored couch almost shimmers.
Her yellow pillows sit in each corner of the couch, and she smiles when she sees them. She circles around to the back of the couch to look out the windows again and perhaps take in the whole room at once, and the motion light in the back hallway clicks on.
“Mm,” she hums. “I see this place is just as teched-out as the one in Vegas.”
I shrug. It’s practical to be able to see where you’re going with minimal effort.
“The pillows look great,” she continues then. “Really liven up the place.”
My shoulders rise and fall again. “I’ll take your word for it.”
She giggles at that, turning to look again at the room and any of the details she may have missed, when her gaze snags on the fireplace—or more specifically, the painting above it.
It features a laughing woman with curly hair and vibrant eyes, the strokes of the paintbrush soft and wispy in a way that completely belies the masculine overtones found throughout the rest of my place.
Now that I look at it closely, it’s remarkably similar in its resemblance to her in both physicality and personality.
“That painting…it…it seems out of character for you.”
I nod. “It is. But my great-great-aunt painted it many years ago and promised it to me when she passed. It’s been hanging there ever since. I’m pretty fond of it, honestly.”
Perhaps that’s why I became so enamored of Daisy so quickly. Normally, I don’t take a weighted interest in anyone’s life but my own.
Daisy nods, her eyes watching me closely for a long moment before moving on almost suddenly.
“What’s down this way?” she asks with a small jerk of her head toward the hallway.
I raise my eyebrows, and she laughs, adding, “Right. Only one way to find out with Mr. Mysterious.”