2. CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
Joss
M y heart is still beating a mile a minute, the heat still lingering in my cheeks from my interaction with Mr. 32C—better known inside my head as Weston J. Anderson. The fact that I looked him up hours ago on the manifest is a tidbit of information I’ll happily take to the grave. No one needs to know that my desire to find out his name came well before we accidentally made it to second base in front of forty-odd passengers.
Good grief, did that really happen? Why me?
In the back of my mind, however, there’s a miniscule yet irritatingly loud thought rolling around saying lucky me . I swat that idea away like a gnat—inconsequential, unimportant, and wholly unhelpful .
I rarely take note of anyone in particular on my flights, but when he boarded the plane in LA, I couldn’t help myself. His tall, lean frame in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt stretched across his broad chest was like a beacon. I’ll admit to checking out his muscles for a few seconds too long and I thought he might have seen me looking because every time I walked by after that, his eyes were on me as well. So, being the mature adult that I am, I started averting my gaze, avoiding him entirely. It was working so well too, right until I ended up with those startling blue eyes staring directly into mine with less than six inches of space between us.
With his body pressed on top of mine, it was difficult not to get lost in their depths, their color rivaling the brilliant blue of the ocean outside. I also couldn’t help but wonder if his unkempt brown hair was as soft as it looked. I’d nearly lost all control of my faculties, wanting nothing more than to run my fingers through it, when I was brought back to the moment by his hand on my chest. That shook me right out of my delusional fantasies about his hair.
I couldn’t seem to keep my emotions locked down like I usually do, causing my embarrassment to manifest into anger. For me, it’s that or tears, and I’ve trained myself well over the years that I do not cry. So, anger it is whenever something mortifying happens. Like, you know, having a beautiful man fall on top of me, grope me, and then pull me into his chest. If not for his abrupt intake of breath, like he could feel the same zing of awareness that I did, I’d swear he’d done that on purpose.
A shiver courses through me as the memories replay in my mind. Oh my god, I cannot believe any of that actually happened. I refused to look at him as he left, not wanting him to see the way I was completely flushed from my cheeks all the way to my toes. He could thank his stuttered attempt at an apology for that.
I distract myself as best I can, going row by row to tidy up anything left behind. I try to let all thoughts of Weston go as I fall into the familiar routine—pick up rubbish, straighten magazines, check for belongings. On and on it goes. It’s redundant but it’s easy and it keeps me moving, busy, my brain focused on the task at hand. As I reach row thirty-two, I notice something on the floor. My stomach sinks as I reach for it, knowing what it is and who it must belong to. Because, really, why wouldn’t it?
I flip open the navy-blue US passport, and yup, there he is in all his glory. Weston James Anderson staring back at me. How is this gorgeous man still taunting me long after leaving the plane? He’s probably being held up at customs as we speak.
Crap, crap, crap.
“Hey, Amala. 32C dropped his passport. I’m going to see if I can catch him,” I call out to our lead flight attendant before I can think better of this idea. She nods, a little smirk playing around her lips. I don’t even want to know what she’s thinking as I rush past her without a second glance.
Let me just say, though practical, my work shoes are not meant for running. Neither is my skirt, which is a bit tighter than I’d prefer. Alas, there’s nothing I can do about either of those things right now as I charge up the gangway. If I don’t catch him, he’ll eventually panic when he realizes his passport is missing. At least I assume that would be a typical response for just about anyone entering a foreign country without their passport .
I scan the crowds of people, looking for any sign of his messy brown hair. I know this was his final destination—because I’m a stalker apparently—so he won’t be at any of the other gates. But he could have stopped at Duty Free, or gone to the bathroom, or he could have rushed straight for the exit.
The point of no return looms before me as I turn on the spot, hoping I won’t have to track him down in the long line at customs. My heart sinks when he doesn’t magically appear. Shoulders slumped, I let my feet carry me back toward the gate. I get about ten meters before I stop short. One last look . I’ll take one last look around just to be sure. I scan the seats, the gates, the streams of people walking past, and that’s when I see him.
It’s his broad shoulders and messy hair that draw my eye as he turns away from the water bottle filling station. He’s heading straight for the security exit. No, no, no. There’s too many people and I’ll never reach him in time. Before I can give it a second thought, I accept my fate and take a deep breath.
“Weston Anderson!” I shout, my voice carrying across the sterile corridor, and his head snaps around so fast he likely cricked his neck. His eyes catch mine and widen in surprise, and I wonder what he’s thinking. “Why is that rude flight attendant chasing me down?” sounds about right.
I wave his passport over my head and his eyes go even wider, his mouth popping open in a comical little O. The sight makes me smile. He jogs back toward me, something else falling from his backpack along the way. Does he not have it zipped? He stops and mumbles something under his breath, irritation written all over his face as he bends down to pick it up. Five more strides and he’s in front of me.
I should say something. Come on, Joss, any words will do. I’m almost coherent enough to speak when he beats me to it.
“Hey.” His one-word greeting comes out breathless.
“Hey.”
The way his shoulders and chest rise and fall has me dropping my gaze and giving him a very unprofessional once-over. He either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore me ogling him as he plants his hands on his knees, bending forward to catch his breath. His backpack falls to the floor with a thud—that didn’t sound good—and he rubs at his right knee, eliciting a small grimace. He gingerly stands up straight and we finally meet eye to eye once again.
Well, not exactly eye to eye. I have to tilt my chin up, up, up to look into his. He runs a hand across his jaw, his stubble long enough that I can hear the scrape of it against his skin. I may have been speechless before, but now I’m just as breathless as he is. Because this man is… well, truly breathtaking. His skin is flushed from the jog over, accentuating his high cheekbones. He’s objectively good-looking, but he doesn’t wear it like a badge, which makes it all the more irresistible.
I hold out the passport, finally finding my words. “You dropped this on the plane.”
He reaches for it, and when his fingers brush mine, I feel a shock of electricity. I pull my hand away and take a step back, needing space. Nope, nope, nope. That whole “shock of attraction” thing only happens in romance novels. That was clearly just static from us running .
“Thank you. Wow, that would have been a disaster.” His voice is rough, and his American accent does things to me that it probably shouldn’t.
“I can’t believe you chased me down to give me this.” He stops for a second, and his mouth quirks up into a small smile. “Or maybe you just really wanted to see me again.”
That’s what he’s thinking? What, I chased him down because I just couldn’t resist him? The audacity of this guy. I mean, yeah, I could have just dropped it at a ticket counter and had them call him, but—
Wait, why hadn’t I done that? I wipe the emotion from my face and refuse to let him see me blush. Again.
“How did you manage to get off the plane with that big head of yours?” The words are out before I can stop them, and there’s no going back.
His eyes narrow on me, like I’ve challenged him and he likes it. Oh brother, he’s one of those guys. The best thing I can do now is hold my ground. That’s probably why he was paying so much attention to me on the plane, because I wouldn’t give him any. He figured I was playing hard to get, which I decidedly was not. I quirk a brow and cross my arms, but his smile only widens, as if that was actually his plan from the beginning.
Dammit, I think he won this time.
“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” His voice caresses the word coffee in a way that should be illegal. I blink and shake my head. I can’t have heard him right. I just called this guy big-headed, and his response is to ask me out?
“Wh-what? ”
“Coffee. Brown liquid. Sometimes with milk or sugar in it. Tastes good. Gives you energy.” His smile grows with every word, making his perfect dimples stand out beneath his beard.
Why, oh why, does he have to have dimples?
Stay strong, Joss.
“I know what coffee is. Why would I want to get it with you?”
“Well, because you’re obsessed with me obviously. Why else would you chase after me in an airport?”
“Ob-ob sessed with you?” I continue to stutter out my words. This is going really well.
“Yup, completely obsessed. The way you yelled my name before, I could tell.”
Lord help me, the pair on him. His eyes gleam with mirth as he runs a hand through his hair, whereas my brows have drawn so close that I’m about to go cross-eyed.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I’m indignant now, and I have zero chill where he’s concerned. He’s delusional. Yet, when he leans into my space, I can’t help my sharp inhale or the way my pulse quickens. I can’t help but breathe in his scent that, despite having spent sixteen hours on an airplane, is somehow crisp and clean and entirely masculine.
His voice is soft and teasing as he speaks low into my ear. “Yes, I’m kidding.” He laughs then, a full, boisterous laugh, and his hand finds his hair again. It’s either a tic of his, or he’s really trying to drive me insane. “I’m just messing with you. Although, I am a hundred percent serious about getting you a cup of coffee, I owe you that much. ”
“Oh, okay, yeah. I mean, no. I’m working, sorry. I have to go actually. Just wanted you to have that. Good luck, Weston.”
I’m backing away now, looking anywhere but at him. I can’t get away fast enough. Not wanting him to see how he affects me, I turn and walk away. Again.
“It’s Wes!” he shouts after me. “And what about you? Aren’t you going to tell me your name, or should I just call you Grey?”
This man has no shame, yelling across the terminal, drawing all sorts of attention to us.
“Grey?” I call back, turning to face him even though I know I shouldn’t encourage him.
He has a devilish grin in place that is even more delectable and wicked than the one he had on before. What on earth? How does he get under my skin like this?
“Like your eyes.” And though he’s talking about my eyes, it’s his that are burning bright.
I scoff but feel the corners of my mouth lift. Goodness, he’s smooth, but I am not falling for his charms. He lifts his hand in a little wave and it’s so cute and endearing that I lose my mind for a second and find myself shouting back to him.
“It’s Joss!”
Why did I do that?
He seems to inflate, like he just won a game I didn’t realize we were playing. We each turn and head our own way. He’s off to take on the Emerald City while I’m headed back to my airplane to finish cleaning up before I get to go home. I have almost a week off before my next trip, and I’m beyond ready for some R&R .
My feet carry me across worn carpet, down the metal gangway, and back into the stale air of the plane. All the while, my feelings are a riotous contradiction. Weston— Wes —has me completely off-kilter. He’s undeniably hot, thus the reason I felt flustered around him during the flight. But he’s also over-confident and cocky, which are not qualities I typically find attractive. He nearly flattened me, which was irritating to say the least. Sadly, it was also the most action I’ve seen in a while. So, there’s that.
I roll my neck to clear the confusing thoughts. It’s a good thing I won’t be seeing him again. Even if he is staying in Sydney for a while, this is a huge city—it’s not likely I’ll run into him on the street. Not that I’d want to. After everything that happened with Eric last month, I need to keep my emotions in check and steer clear of trouble.
And Wes Anderson screams trouble.