Commit: A Second Chance Sweet Romantic Comedy (The Sweet Rom"Com" Series Book 4)

Chapter 1

Ilook suspicious.

The hood of my sweatshirt is pulled up and cinched, hiding my dark hair and half of my face while my sunglasses cover the other half. I’m like a celebrity trying not to be recognized by the paparazzi. My cover seemed like a good idea in theory, but now I’m dying of heat stroke—has Key West never heard of air conditioning?—and the glasses make everything so dark I can’t see where I’m going.

So I follow Matt.

AKA my ex-boyfriend.

The reason for my suspicious look.

Of course we would be on the same direct flight from Houston to Key West.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I reach for it. I have to lift my sunglasses to read who’s calling.

It’s my roommate, Chelsea.

“Hey,” I say, putting the phone to my ear.

“So? Did Matt see you on the plane?”

I hang back by a pillar while the rest of the people on my flight hover around the baggage carousel.

“No.”

Matt was three rows ahead of me. The second I saw him board the plane, I texted Chelsea in sheer panic. Matt and I haven’t seen each other since I broke his heart, so naturally, it felt like the perfect time to duck and hide.

Technically, I broke both of our hearts. I’m a heartbreaker—it’s a tough label to live with.

Who breaks up with the perfect guy the day of his mom’s funeral?

Me.

I do that.

Because I’m a broken mess.

Thanks, Mom. I appreciate the childhood trauma.

At least that’s what my therapist labeled it as.

“Where’s Matt now?” Chelsea asks.

“He’s waiting for his luggage.” I glance up and down his frame. He always did look good in athletic shorts that hit a few inches above the knee. He has great legs. That’s precisely why I bought him the pair he’s wearing now.

“You know, you’re going to be with Matt all weekend at the wedding festivities. You might as well go talk to him and get it over with.”

“It’s awkward, and maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me.” It’s not like he ran after me when I ended things. He just let me go. Didn’t fight for us. Didn’t try to contact me and change my mind. For all I know, he’s happy to be rid of me. “He’s clearly moved on with his life.”

Chelsea gasps. “Did he bring a date with him to the wedding?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“Unless he decided to ask the blonde flight attendant that was flirting with him the entire plane ride to be his date.”

“Oh my gosh. Was he flirting with her right in front of you?”

I shake my head. “He didn’t even notice she was coming on to him.”

“Then why did you say he moved on?”

“Because he seems so fine.”

“You can’t tell if he’s fine by looking at him.”

“He’s dressed, his hair is combed, and he just smiled at a little boy. I think he’s fine.”

Chelsea laughs. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I was dressed as a depressed paper bag for weeks after we broke up.”

“Maybe he’s exiting the used-sack-lunch phase. And maybe you’re the one that should’ve brought a date.”

“Why would I need to bring a date?” I scoff. “I broke up with him. I have nothing to prove. And don’t you think that would be a little insensitive of me?”

“Yeah, I guess.” There’s a squeaking noise as if Chelsea leaned back into her office chair even more. “If it’s so awkward, then why are you even going to this wedding in the first place?”

That’s a great question. One I’ve been asking myself for the past month.

I RSVP’d for Reece and Jana’s destination wedding even though I knew Matt would be here too. They’re both of our friends. We introduced them and were friends together—until two months ago when I ended things.

“I’m going to the wedding because Reece and Jana are my friends, and that’s what friends do. They support each other.” I twist my finger around the tie on my hood. “And I’m the maid of honor. You can’t skip a wedding when you’re the maid of honor.”

“Sure you can. People in the Witness Protection Program do it all the time.”

“I’m not in the Witness Protection Program.” However, someone might take one look at how I’m dressed right now and disagree.

“Jana would understand if you tell her you’re not up to seeing Matt.”

“I’m up to seeing him. I just didn’t think it was a good idea to start a conversation in the airport. We’d have to walk off the flight together. Stand and wait for our luggage together. That’s a lot of time to try and make conversation.”

And in all honesty, I wanted a chance to freshen up at the hotel. I know I shouldn’t care about that stuff since I was the one who broke up with him. But I do. I didn’t end things because I didn’t love him anymore. It was something bigger. And a part of me wants to stroll into this wedding weekend looking my best. I want Matt to have a moment where he thinks, Man, I should’ve gone after that woman. I should’ve fought harder to keep her.

It doesn’t make sense, but this is where my logic is at.

“It sounds like you have it all figured out,” Chelsea says.

A new wave of people line up around the carousel, blocking my view. I spin around to the other side of the pillar so I can keep my eye on Matt, not because I like seeing him smile at strangers or because I miss watching him run his fingers through his light-brown hair absentmindedly. I’m keeping an eye on him because that’s what you do. You never lose sight of your target.

“I do have it all figured out.”

“All right, text me tonight. I want to know how it goes,” Chelsea says.

“Sure thing.”

Then, she’s gone.

The lights on the baggage claim start flashing, and the conveyor belt begins spinning. I need to get my luggage and get the heck out of this airport. I inch my way closer. It’s one of those half-moon conveyor belts where the luggage goes through the little carwash flaps, takes a ride around the carousel, and then, if nobody picks it up, it goes back through the flaps on the other end.

I’m standing where the luggage comes out, making sure the flight board hides me from Matt. He’s on the other end, where the luggage escapes back inside. As soon as I see my suitcase, I’m grabbing it and heading in the opposite direction to the curb.

My pink polka-dot ribbon tied to my suitcase handle peeks out of the flaps first. I’m sneaky, so I keep my head down as I lean in to get my bag. Anyone watching me is probably wondering why I’m ducking, or maybe they’re wondering why my hoodie is cinched so tight around sunglasses.

Pretty much everything about me right now is questionable.

I pull up on the bag while I try to straighten, but my body is immediately dragged back down.

Is the bag stuck?

I walk a few steps with the belt as it moves forward, trying to get a better look, but my head won’t budge. My eyes drop to the carousel. The stupid hoodie string is caught on the conveyor belt. This isn’t a smooth top conveyor belt. Nope. It’s one of the scale-type ones with individual panels, and currently, my hoodie string is stuck between two panels, forcing me to walk backward with the moving machine.

“Excuse me,” I say as my butt bumps into the few bodies standing right next to the carousel. “Pardon me.”

If only my butt could beep like a commercial truck in reverse, then everyone would know I was coming and would get out of the way.

I’m hunched over, tripping on feet as people try to step back, all while I’m being tugged slowly around the half-moon.

Do you know how many stars have to align for something like this to happen?

You need this exact type of conveyor belt—the one with the scales.

You need to have cinched your hoodie so tight that the strings are long and dangling.

And you need to bend wayyyy down like an idiot when picking up your luggage.

Lucky for me, everything came together.

I’m so blessed.

I round the corner with my suitcase, and that’s when I really start to panic. I glance over my shoulder—as much as I can, considering my head is on a short leash. There’s only about fifteen feet left before the conveyor belt disappears under the flaps into the unknown. If I don’t get my hoodie unstuck soon, I’ll be forced to lie on the conveyor belt and let it sweep me away.

I’m sure there are worse things in life than riding a baggage carousel through the airport, but I can’t think of any right now.

I’m up against it—not literally, although I will be in a few feet if I don’t get the string out.

I tug with both hands.

Nothing.

I debate taking my sweatshirt off, but there’s no way I’ll be able to get it over my head with how tightly it’s cinched.

People around me start to notice. Some yell, “Pull!” Others yell for airport security to stop the machine. A nearby child asks his mom why I get to play on the carousel and he doesn’t.

I’m sure I’ll be viral before making it around one complete time.

This is my last chance before I have to dive onto my stomach and disappear. At this point, maybe I want to disappear.

I yank as hard as I can, and suddenly, there’s another hand pulling too. The force of our combined efforts snaps the string in half, sending me flying backward. Two firm hands steady me.

Everyone around me claps.

“Are you okay, miss?”

I slowly turn around, already knowing who the firm hands belong to.

“Remi? Is that you?”

I shrink with embarrassment. “Oh, hey, Matt.” Someone who almost died in a baggage-claim accident shouldn’t sound this chipper. “I didn’t know you were here.” I pick up what’s left of the hoodie string and wave it in front of his face.

His brows drop. “Why do you look like the Unabomber?”

I shake my head. “You can’t say Unabomber in an airport.”

“But you can dress like one?”

“I was cold…and it was bright.”

Matt nods slowly.

He knows I’m bluffing, but I’m not about to take my disguise off now. I need it for my walk of shame out to the curb.

“You’re the only girl I know who could get stuck in a baggage carousel,” he says.

I point behind me at the rotating belt. “That was not?—”

“It’s so you,” he says, dropping his arms. He bends down and grabs his bag, but I hear the words he says under his breath. “Part of your charm.”

And suddenly, I’m back to the first day we met.