Skylar
Grinning, he cocks his head. "What's your name?"
The question should be simple enough to answer.
Instead, his deep baritone voice short-circuits my concentration and I silently scold myself.
He's a sexy mystery I want to unravel. That isn't how this is supposed to work. I’m not supposed to be attracted.
A reporter stays objective. She observes.
She asks questions. She doesn't become distracted by the subject of the story.
It’s his smokey rich voice that’s entirely to blame.
I don't expect something as simple as that to affect me, but it wraps around me with the warmth of a fur coat on a cold winter evening.
Outside of Vince, I don't spend much time in conversation with men.
It seems my ears are almost starved for the deep, masculine cadence of his voice and, like a dry sponge, I soak in every word.
The rich timbre settles somewhere deep inside me, lingering long after he stops speaking.
I don't recover as quickly as I'd like and my grip on my notebook falters.
The moment my fingers relax, several loose sheets I've tucked between the pages flutter toward the floor.
"Shit."
I practically dive to catch the papers before they scatter, but it's too late. The first slips from my fingertips, followed by another, then another. I reach across the growing mess, and my elbow bumps the laptop bag. It tips sideways, spilling its contents and joining with the paper across the floor. It’s as if the universe conspired to make an already embarrassing moment infinitely worse.
If there were a hole nearby, I'd crawl into it.
“Jeezus…” the word escapes on a frustrated whisper as pencils roll, flash drives skitter beneath nearby chairs, and everything else slides out of the case. Sticky notes I'd carefully organized only minutes ago now drift through the air like oversized yellow confetti.
Vince doesn't move. He simply watches agape as the disaster unfolds, his eyes growing wider with every passing second.
But, apparently, fate has decided I'm not humiliated enough because, as I scramble to rescue my belongings, I clip my fresh, steaming hot, cup of coffee.
"No!"
The venti tumbles off the table.
The plastic lid pops free the instant it hits the floor, sending coffee splashing across the tiles and onto the papers I'd been trying so desperately to save.
I freeze. For one horrifying second, I simply stare.
My research. My notes. My working manuscript.
Every page lies scattered across the airport floor, now decorated with spreading coffee stains.
Mortified doesn't even begin to cover it.
"Shit. Shit. Shit."
I regain my senses and remember how to move, digging through my pocket to yank out the travel pack of Kleenex I always carry.
I go first for my laptop. Forget the papers.
I frantically blot every drop of coffee I can find before it has a chance to seep beneath the keyboard and silently pray I haven't destroyed several thousand dollars' worth of equipment.
It takes Vince a moment to regroup. When he does, he pushes back his chair so quickly it nearly topples behind him. "I'll grab some napkins."
The pitch in his voice tells me he recognizes the panic threatening to overtake me, but I barely register that he's gone.
My entire focus narrows to one terrifying possibility.
If coffee seeps beneath the keyboard, my laptop is finished.
Months of work could disappear because I couldn't keep hold of a simple cup of coffee.
"Here. Let me help."
I respond to the voice without looking up.
A pair of outstretched hands appears beside mine, and I instinctively place a dripping stack of papers into them.
Whoever has come to my rescue has hands much larger than mine, with broad, calloused fingers that speak of someone accustomed to working with them.
After the laptop, I retrieve my Kindle, followed by a spare battery pack and then a handful of flash drives scattered across the floor.
I pass each one to him as quickly as I recover them.
My peripheral vision allows a view of him placing everything neatly on the empty seat beside mine.
I hurriedly stuff everything back inside the bag, specifically anything the coffee hasn't reached. The notes can be recreated if necessary. The laptop cannot. My pulse pounds in my ears as I rescue another notebook and then reach for a pencil that rolled away.
The frantic pace catches up with me the moment I straighten.
I rise too quickly, and a wave of vertigo crashes over me without warning. The terminal sways, the floor seeming to shift beneath my feet as my balance disappears. I instinctively reach for something, anything, that might steady me before I fall, but my hand closes on empty air.
"Whoa..."
Someone catches my arm before gravity has the chance.
The unexpected movement throws me farther off balance, and instead of falling to the floor, I stumble forward into a body solid enough to stop me. Instinctively, I brace myself against his chest as he steadies me.
For one suspended heartbeat the noise of the airport fades into the background, and the warmth beneath my palms, the strength in the arm supporting me, and the unmistakably masculine scent surrounds me.
It registers all at once, sending a strange awareness rushing through me that has nothing to do with the lingering dizziness.
What on earth is happening to me?
The spinning gradually subsides, allowing me to regain my footing and once I'm certain my legs will support me, I lift my head to thank the person who kept me from collapsing in the middle of the terminal.
But words never come.
His warm brown eyes meet mine. Something inside me stills so completely that I momentarily forget about coffee soaking my manuscript, papers scattered across the floor, and embarrassment that consumed me only seconds earlier.
There is no amusement nor trace of pity in his expression.
Instead, I find kindness, patience, and concern looking back at me.
Oh, God.
Mr. Anti-Romance.
A flutter stirs low in my stomach, so slight I nearly convince myself I've imagined it. My chest tightens, making it difficult to draw a full breath as I remain caught in his gaze. The sensation is equal parts exhilarating and unsettling … and I can't decide which feeling frightens me more.
He looks almost as startled as I feel. “Are you okay?”
His eyes widen, the tiny flecks of gold dancing within his eyes like Fourth of July sparklers, and although I can't see myself, I'm certain mine are responding the same way.
"Thank you." My voice is barely a whisper.
Reason scratches at the edges of my thoughts but I can't seem to make my body cooperate. It’s as though we’re two people who have been knotted together in an instant of contact and bound by an invisible tether that neither of us understands.
I can see in his eyes he feels it, too.
Moments ago, he was a complete stranger in an airport terminal. Now he doesn't feel like a stranger at all.
He smiles. He's studying me. And before I have any chance to stop it, an impossible thought slips into my mind.
What would it feel like to kiss him?
The thought is so suddenly, so completely uninvited, that I immediately drop my gaze to the faded gray carpet beneath our feet.
Staring at the worn fibers might somehow make more sense than my own thoughts.
I haven't dated in years. I don't look at strange men and I sure as hell don’t imagine kissing them.
"You're welcome."
That irresistible voice wraps around me again, deep, warm, and rich enough to make me think of how delicious, melted chocolate sounds.
Heat bloom across my cheeks. I can't look up. Can’t bring myself to look into his eyes.
Too many things have happened in too little time, and my mind is struggling to organize them into some semblance of logic.
Even if he did rescue me, I’ve never considered myself the kind of woman who needs rescuing.
There is a small crowd watching who gathered around my spectacular humiliation, and it pulls my attention away from him.
Slowly, I draw air into my lungs. Each breath feels as though it’s fighting its way into my chest. It’s uncomfortable, and standing in the middle of an airport surrounded by java-soaked papers certainly isn't helping.
I need to get a grip. Although I realize the embarrassment is temporary, my immediate need is to recover what little dignity I have left.
I inhale slowly, allowing the breath to settle my racing thoughts.
Then I do it again.
And once more.
By the third slow breath, the frantic pounding of my heart begins to surrender to something that resembles composure. I deliberately lift my chin.
He's still watching me.
The ridiculous flutter returns. It’s as though my system has decided it's no longer interested in behaving like an adult.
Enough.
"Are you sure you’re okay?" His voice rises ever so slightly at the end of the question, and the easy smile accompanying it threatens to unravel every ounce of progress I've just made.
"I'm good, thanks." I wrap an arm around my waist, more to ground myself than for comfort.
It doesn't take long for the spectators to lose interest once they realize the show is over. Their attention drifts back to their respective laptops, books, and phones, leaving me to get back to my own business.
I return to my seat, only to realize it no longer feels like my seat at all.
While I'd been preoccupied with my spectacular public humiliation, Vince and the handsome stranger have changed places. Vince is now positioned directly across from me, and there’s one empty chair separating me from the man who rescued me—and my laptop.
Perfect.
I glance to my left, then to my right, making certain no one is still watching before deciding the only way through the awkwardness is straight through it.